


To Plant New Seeds

by momentia



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Permanent Injury, Recovery, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27041191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momentia/pseuds/momentia
Summary: It's sometime later, still dark or maybe dark again, when the door to his flat opens.  He wakes, startles, then whimpers.  Every tiny movement feels like the knives are still hacking away at him.  Where was their cold efficiency then?  No, they'd wanted him to suffer.  They'd succeeded."Oh."  That voice again, and in the room this time.  Crowley would weep, but he's not sure when he last stopped.  "Oh," Aziraphale says again, "oh, Crowley.""They took them," Crowley moans, pitiful even to his own ears.  "They took my wings."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 216
Collections: Courts GO Re-Reads, Good Omens Kink Meme, Top Aziraphale Recs





	To Plant New Seeds

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=122472) on the kink meme: _The ending body swap plan doesn’t succeed, or maybe a disgruntled angel or demon comes for one of them after the fact. Either way, one ends up with their wings brutally cut off, and the other is left to care for them._
> 
> Title from "Flowers In The Window" by Travis.
> 
> Thank you to [Andy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/introductory) and [Meredith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/garnettrees) for their help.

Crowley doesn't know how long he lies there, surrounded by dark blood and darker feathers. Long enough for the sun to rise and set at least once, maybe more times; unconsciousness is much less pleasant when it isn't a choice.

At some point he rolls from his ruined back into his stomach. The air hurts in a different way than the floor had.

He's torn open, bone and muscle, tendon, raw nerve all exposed. He concentrates, and finds that the bleeding has slowed, trickles from the exertion of rolling over but no longer gushing. He's pretty sure blood loss can't kill him, but it can make him weak. He thinks about trying to get up, but a new bolt of agony shoots down his spine. 

If he stays here long enough, his body will either heal or die. That's how it works, he thinks. Life sustains itself until it doesn't.

He remembers the plants a few rooms away, wonders which ones will outlive him. Not all of them. He hasn't had the orchids long enough to put them in their place, and he knows they'll have the audacity to die if no one checks on them.

His mobile is somewhere in this room, wherever it skidded when he dropped it in the struggle, yesterday or two days ago or whenever that was, now. Movement is torture, so he closes his eyes and tries to remember. The northwest corner, his memory supplies.

And that's where he finds it, thank the stars. If he'd dragged himself in the wrong direction, he isn't sure he could have made himself turn around and try again. It still has a charge, four percent, and several missed calls from the book shop.

He manages to find the callback button on the dimmed screen. It rings, he's not sure how many times. It doesn't matter, he realizes, because he's been saying Aziraphale's name over and over, a mantra, a prayer. Nothing else seems as important, nothing else makes sense.

"Aziraphale." His voice is a hoarse whisper. Oh, he realizes, probably from all the screaming. "Aziraphale. Aziraphale."

"I'm on my way." Aziraphale's voice is so sweet. "Where are you?"

The phone goes dead, but Crowley isn't overly concerned as his consciousness recedes again. Aziraphale will find him. It's what they do.

.

It's sometime later, still dark or maybe dark again, when the door to his flat opens. He wakes, startles, then whimpers. Every tiny movement feels like the knives are still hacking away at him. Where was their cold efficiency then? No, they'd wanted him to suffer. They'd succeeded.

"Oh." That voice again, and in the room this time. Crowley would weep, but he's not sure when he last stopped. "Oh," Aziraphale says again, "oh, Crowley."

"They took them," Crowley moans, pitiful even to his own ears. "They took my wings."

"I know, oh, you poor soul." Aziraphale's hand is warm at Crowley's temple, caressing his hair, sticky with dried blood and tears. "Let me get you up off the floor." He hesitates and Crowley realizes he's _asking,_ not wanting to become another violation.

"Yes," Crowley murmurs, because talking hurts less than nodding would.

Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, he forgets that Aziraphale is a celestial being and not only the frumpy bookworm he appears to be. He lifts Crowley effortlessly, cradles him to his chest. Crowley wants to reach for him, wants to curl his fingers into Aziraphale's jacket and cling to him and howl, but he can't. Every movement of his shoulders jostles the raw roots still protruding from his back.

It hurts enough when Aziraphale carries him to his bedroom, laying him gently on his side. Crowley opens his eyes, and Aziraphale is crouched beside the bed, level with him.

"I can try," Aziraphale whispers. The air crackles for a moment, then the energy dissipates with an audible hiss. He tries several more times, with the same result.

Of course, Crowley realizes, of course Aziraphale's powers won't work here; he's not as powerful as the beings behind this, he can't soothe the hurt they've inflicted.

Aziraphale looks on the verge of tears. "I don't know what to do." And yet he tries, again and again.

Crowley reaches for Aziraphale, though his hand only moves a few inches before he withdraws it with a hiss. "Aziraphale, stop."

Oh, Aziraphale looks so miserable. Maybe Crowley shouldn't have called, shouldn't have put him in this position to fail. He stares at Aziraphale and regrets calling. He regrets so much.

"I'm sorry," Crowley begins. He has a list, but he thinks better of it. He can't stand to focus on Aziraphale's heartbroken face, so he stares at his jacket instead, at the dark stains on both sleeves and splotched across the chest. "I'm sorry I ruined your clothes, not sure demon blood will wash out but I can try to fix them, later, when I'm not so tired."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale's face is an impossible mix of minor irritation and the edge of hysteria, his lips a tight line and his eyes wide. "That's hardly necessary; they're just clothes."

Crowley laughs, the sound unmistakable even as it lodges in his throat and turns into a sob. Aziraphale touches his hair again, pale fingers carding through fire. It's the only part of Crowley's body that isn't screaming.

"Rest," he says softly, and Crowley closes his eyes. Aziraphale is still running soothing touches over Crowley's face when he slips away from the pain into blissful nothing. 

. 

Whatever force Crowley's assailants had employed to force his wings to manifest, neither he nor Aziraphale can undo. His wings are gone, of course, but the remnants remain, raw and visible, splintered bone and mutilated flesh jutting from his back.

Aziraphale can't heal him, though Crowley can feel him try, over and over, when he thinks Crowley is asleep. No, all he can do is gently clean the twin weeping wounds and murmur words of comfort.

"You're so brave, you're doing so well," Aziraphale tells him. He's cutting away the remains of Crowley's ruined shirt, and Crowley turns his face farther into his pillow. His cheeks are hot. Can demons develop infections, he wonders. Maybe it's a fever he's feeling and not shame. "The bleeding has nearly stopped now."

Crowley grunts. What is there to say? He's nearly certain that he can't bleed to death; it's only unfortunate that he let his heart get into the habit of beating to begin with, let his lungs ever fill with air. Why did he do that, again? To better appreciate the scents of wine and old paper, starch and cologne? It seems like a distant, short-sighted decision. All he smells now is rust and salt.

"I do believe," Aziraphale is saying, and Crowley forces his attention back to that familiar sound, "that the joints will heal over with time. I'm no physician, but I can see new skin growing at the edges. The human body really is a marvel."

It's with a wrenching pain that Crowley sits upright and tears his body around to face Aziraphale, whose mouth is hanging open on an inhale. "I am not a human," Crowley growls.

"I merely meant that the physical form we've taken--"

"Wings or no, I am a _demon_."

"Of course you are." Aziraphale speaks calmly, voice slow and low, perfect for a cornered, wounded animal.

"I'm not less than I was. I'm not _weak_."

"My dear, I swear on all that exists, you're stronger than most anyone I've ever known."

Crowley crumples under the weight of that sincerity. He bows his head and presses his hands to his eyes, wishing for his sunglasses. A pair should appear when he wishes, but his hands remain empty so he just presses the heels hard against his eyes. He sees stars, and knows he may well outlive those, too.

Aziraphale doesn't say anything, but he places a very gentle hand on Crowley's knee, his thumb moving in slow patterns. It feels like a long time that they sit that way, though it's hard to know. Crowley still hasn't opened his eyes, he's trying so hard to focus on that one pleasant sensation. It's definitely a deliberate pattern that Aziraphale is tracing, but he isn't quite sensitive enough to figure it out, it could be anything, maybe constellations or some verse in Aramaic. Both comforting thoughts.

The touch itself is comforting, too, and Crowley finds himself slowly leaning forward, ignoring the pull between his shoulders because it means getting closer. He wants to rest his head on Aziraphale's shoulder.

So he does. 

Aziraphale stiffens for just a moment, then relaxes, his other hand coming up to stroke Crowley's hair. Crowley turns his face into Aziraphale's neck, seeking the warmth of skin on skin, and Aziraphale _lets_ him, just keeps running gentle fingers through his tangled hair and saying soft words, _shh, you're safe, I'm here now_.

"They." Crowley's voice breaks. "Aziraphale, they were all I had left of Home."

"Oh, no, sweet friend." Aziraphale presses a perfectly gentle kiss to the top of Crowley's head. "You still have me."

. 

Crowley wakes occasionally, always to find Aziraphale nearby. He must have gone home at some point because he has clean clothes and a stack of books.

"What are you _wearing?_ " Crowley croaks, maybe the fifth or sixth time he wakes. It hurts much less than he expects when he sits up for a closer look. He must have been asleep for a long time.

Aziraphale coughs. "Is it bad?"

"No." Crowley would shrug to affect nonchalance, but he isn't sure that's a great idea, so he's left with sincerity instead. "I've just never seen you dressed down, but you look good. I mean, very comfortable."

Aziraphale frowns down at his sweater, a pale cream with cable knit across the chest and diamond stitch down each arm. "I'd hardly call it 'dressed down,' Crowley, this is a 100% merino wool sweater hand knit on the Aran islands." Crowley snorts, and Aziraphale adds, "These buttons are hand-carved wood."

Crowley holds his hands up in surrender. He can feel bandages tugging at his skin. He hasn't worn a shirt in, well, however long it's been. He may even be a bit jealous of Aziraphale's cardigan, old-fashioned as it is. "I said it looked good, didn't I?"

What he'd actually said was that _its wearer_ looked good, but Aziraphale either didn't notice or is kind enough not to correct him. Instead he hums, satisfied, and changes the subject. "I'd like to change your bandages. If you'd prefer to be asleep for that, I can make that happen."

It's Crowley's turn to frown. "Have you been _making_ me sleep all this time?"

"Oh my, no, of course not." Aziraphale shakes his head for emphasis. "I wouldn't break your trust like that, never again." Guilt, regret, pain flicker across that lovely, almost-too-expressive face. "No, I was simply offering. I've tried to do your dressing changes while you sleep." His voice goes soft, and he doesn't blink when he says, "I, well, I hate hurting you, Crowley."

"Oh." Crowley should apologize, maybe, but the words won't seem to form. "Right, then. I'll stay awake. I've been sleeping quite a lot, after all, even for me. How long have I been asleep anyway?"

"A couple weeks." Aziraphale counts to himself. "It's been seventeen days, I believe, since we last spoke." He crosses to the side of the bed, and it's the first Crowley registers the boxes of bandages on the nightstand. Aziraphale must have stopped at a shop when he went out. There's an empty bowl, too, and a pile of clean handkerchiefs. How many fine linen handkerchiefs has his blood ruined since this all began, Crowley wonders distantly, stained dark and ugly forever; what a sacrifice Aziraphale has made. As he watches, the bowl fills with water, steam curling in the air. He smells sweet soap and bitter antiseptic.

"Seventeen days," Crowley repeats. He remembers his plants, the reason he finally pulled himself across that bloody floor weeks ago. His orchids, the delicate flowers he'd acquired for the supposed challenge and _not_ because he'd wanted to make pale boutonnieres for someone with particular tastes. "Dare I ask how the plants have fared?"

"Quite well, in fact." Aziraphale is practically thrumming with pride, emotion so big he can't stand still. "I passed a fair bit of time perusing every botany and horticulture book from the shop, assembling a solid care routine. They seem to be, if not flourishing, then certainly maintaining."

Crowley narrows his eyes. "I hope you weren't too nice to them."

"Hmm? I assure you, I merely followed all best practices for water, sunlight, fertilization, and aeration."

"You spoiled them." Not that Crowley would have expected anything different; Aziraphale isn't overly indulgent of everything, but the plants, as an extension of Crowley, would receive excellent care, just as Crowley has over the past few weeks. "Best warn them that I'll be back soon."

"You can probably warn them yourself, now that you're awake." Aziraphale has busied himself with preparing the bandages, which is convenient because Crowley's face is betraying the sheer panic he feels. He's barely sat up since this happened, how is Aziraphale expecting him to _walk?_

"Maybe," Crowley tries to say, around the metaphorical lump in his chest. "Maybe you best, uh, bring one or two in here for a chat, and they can report back to the others."

He can never tell when Aziraphale is actually ignoring him versus when he's simply pretending to in order to avoid addressing whatever he's thinking about. Aziraphale's poker face is a near-perfect mirror of his distractibility. "I'll be back in a moment, I just need to wash my hands."

Crowley stares at the bandaging supplies on the table. Every instinct in his body is screaming at him to retreat. He listens to the water running in the bathroom, tries to picture the pushed-up sleeves of Aziraphale's sweater, the pale hair on his pale arms, gentle hands and how _safe_ he'll be in them, he'll be fine, it's _fine_.

"Aziraphale?" he calls.

"Hmm?" Aziraphale's gentle voice carries over the water. "Yes?"

"Perhaps I'd like to sleep after all."

"Oh, of course." Aziraphale sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. "Would you like my help just this once?"

"Yes," Crowley whispers. He expects to lose consciousness immediately, hopes to, actually, but instead he feels Aziraphale's fingertips at his temples. He can't see Aziraphale because he's on his stomach, but he can feel him, not just his hands but the suggestion of his warmth as he leans across Crowley, oh so careful. His fingers rub gently on either side of his face, pressing a little more firmly as they work their way up into his hairline, and Crowley feels warmth radiate from Aziraphale's palms, unspool from the crown of his head and wash over his body.

Everything falls away.

When Crowley wakes, there's a blanket pulled up to and tucked around his waist, and all the medical paraphernalia has been cleared from the nightstand. It's been replaced by two plants, a tall fern and one of those damn orchids, along with a note in Aziraphale's handwriting: _Don't be too harsh; they've been very worried about you_.

.

Crowley eyes the tray wearily, warily. "I'm not hungry, Aziraphale, have you forgotten that I don't _get_ hungry?"

"Of course I haven't." Aziraphale sits the tray on the bed, fussing a bit, and holds out a hand. When Crowley just stares, Aziraphale hmphs and says, "Come, now, it's time for you to eat something, and you must sit to eat."

"I don't need to eat," Crowley bites out. "Do I have to remind you again that I'm not _human_ just because I've lost my wings?" His tone implies a disdain toward humans that he doesn't actually feel; the real object, he knows, is his current state.

Aziraphale doesn't address Crowley's actual statement, saying instead, "Your body is healing, knitting new tissues, making new blood. We don't need to eat, but we know that what we put into our bodies, our bodies use. We both get drunk, and I get--" He gestures at his body. "Well, soft."

Crowley wants to correct, _More beautiful with every century that passes_ , but instead he says, "Gabriel's a wanker." It's beyond an understatement, but it's what Aziraphale needs to hear.

Aziraphale does a poor job hiding his smile. "Be that as it may, I do believe it would help your recovery for you to eat, just a bit." And Crowley finally realizes what Aziraphale isn't saying: that feeding him will allow him to feel that he's helping. He swallows past his panic and takes Aziraphale's hand.

Actually getting upright hurts, even with Aziraphale's help, one hand in his and the other on his waist, helping to pull him forward. Oh, it hurts. Crowley presses his forehead to Aziraphale's shoulder and tries to make a joke, forcing between gritted teeth, "It's almost like we're dancing."

"Maybe once you've recuperated."

"Was that a _joke?_ "

"Was it?" Aziraphale hums. He holds him another few moments, his thumb rubbing the spot below Crowley's bottom rib, before reaching past him for extra pillows to arrange between Crowley's lower back and the headboard.

Settled now, or as settled as he can get, braced against the pillows, Crowley finally gives the tray a proper look. Some dish he can't see under a silver cloche, though it smells, he will admit only to himself, amazing; warm bread wrapped in a towel inside of a basket beside a covered butter dish; a champagne flute filled with what Crowley is sure is only orange juice, not the mimosa he deserves; a spoon, a knife, and a cloth napkin; and, finally, a crystal bud vase holding a single yellow tulip.

Crowley had cultivated yellow tulips once, during a brief fit of wistfulness decades or maybe centuries ago. After a couple years, he replaced them with something that didn't glare back.

"This is," Crowley pauses, considers, settles on, "elaborate."

"Hardly." Aziraphale settles into his chair beside the bed and reaches over to smooth the napkin across Crowley's lap. He doesn't seem to notice Crowley's raised eyebrow, going on to say, "There isn't even any dessert, though I think I can manage a fruit sorbet if you're feeling up for it once you have some real sustenance."

It's with a bit of unnecessary flourish that he reveals the main course, a simple vegetable soup in beef stock. It seems out of place in a very nice porcelain dish. Not for the first time in the past few weeks, Crowley feels a sense of unreality wash over him, heightened a few moments later when Aziraphale frets, "Oh dear, I didn't even think about how very tired you must be, or that you may need your arms to hold yourself up. Here, let me feed you."

All Crowley can do is stare as Aziraphale moves from the chair to the edge of the bed, which somehow dips under his weight without the tray dipping at all. Aziraphale lifts a spoonful of broth to Crowley's mouth, a sliver of warmth pressing against his skin. He can't deny that expectant gaze, so he parts his lips, allows Aziraphale to tip the spoon up until Crowley's mouth fills with flavor.

He should have known better, thinking that Aziraphale would bring him something unimpressive. The spices are perfectly blended, and the stock is flavorful, probably from one of those fancy Kobe steers from Japan or similar nonsense. Or maybe Crowley's body really did want food, and anything would have tasted this good. Probably the former, though, he decides, seeing as how Aziraphale prides himself on having fine taste, even when that taste is reimagined in the form of whatever he manifests from nothing.

Aziraphale raises the spoon to Crowley's mouth again, and oh, Crowley knows he should protest, for his pride if for no other reason, but this is nice. He tries to remember when the last time was that someone took care of him, and he realizes that no one ever has. Crowley had spent several years feeding, soothing, bathing a human child, and he did it all by mimicking behaviors he'd seen on television or in films. That's where he had learned tenderness. It certainly wasn't from his life. Until now. It took enduring the single most brutal act of violence Crowley could imagine, one that he could not, in fact, have imagined before it began, for him to earn this bit of gentleness.

Yes, he could probably lean on just one hand and use the other to feed himself. He could manage. He could skip eating entirely. Or he could indulge, not just himself but Aziraphale as well.

Staying still has always been easier than acting. Isaac Newton knew it, inertia and all that. So Crowley stays still, stays silent, and allows Aziraphale to feed him. Spoonfuls of soup and bites of warm bread brought to his lips, and then juice raised to his mouth with Aziraphale's other hand on the back of Crowley's neck to steady him while he gulps greedily.

The glass doesn't go empty until Crowley's thirst has been quenched. Even as Aziraphale pulls the flute away and sits it on the tray, his other hand stays on Crowley's neck. Crowley turns his head, ignoring the pull of medical tape and tender flesh, and pushes his jaw against Aziraphale's palm, his mouth to Aziraphale's wrist, his pulse point. Not for the first time in recent memory, Crowley feels awe at knowing they're both alive and together.

Crowley murmurs against the soft sleeve of Aziraphale's sweater, "Thank you, a-- Aziraphale."

Aziraphale frowns. "Crowley," he starts to say, "I've wanted to ask you…" He trails off, to Crowley's relief.

"Not just yet," Crowley tells him. Aziraphale likely has his suspicions, but confirmation would break his heart, and Crowley can't bear doing that to him, not now. Not when his hand is still warm on Crowley's face and the fibers of his clothing smell of cocoa powder and sugar where Crowley breathes him in.

Aziraphale hums. "Have you had your fill?"

 _Never_ , Crowley thinks, but Aziraphale means the food, of course, and Crowley says, "Yes."

The tray is gone, and now the mattress is permitted to shift properly with Aziraphale's weight at the edge of the bed. It tilts Crowley toward him, too, a natural movement, and just as naturally Aziraphale's other arm comes up to steady them both. "You should rest, here, allow me to help you lie down." His touch is so gentle but so secure, lowering Crowley's torso to the bed, laying his head against the pillows that had been supporting his back moments before. Crowley's on his side, and Aziraphale reaches for another pillow to put in front of him, to prop him up, but instead Crowley rests his hand on Aziraphale's knee.

"Don't go."

Aziraphale pats his hand. "I'll be right in the next room, I'll be able to hear if you need me."

 _I need you now_. Crowley's fingers curl tightly, as if he could somehow hold him there. "Just until I fall asleep, stay with me, please."

"I shouldn't."

"Come on." Crowley turns his hand so he can tangle their fingers together. "Don't make an injured demon beg, Aziraphale."

"Oh, alright." Aziraphale squeezes his hand and adds, "At least allow me to get comfortable."

There are more pillows along the headboard than Crowley has ever owned, and Aziraphale half-reclines at his side, his feet pulled up on the bed. Socks, but no shoes; how considerate. Crowley isn't feeling so considerate himself, and moves his head from the pillow to Aziraphale's leg without asking. Aziraphale stills for just a moment, then relaxes.

Crowley suspects that Aziraphale is breathing in a very intentional way, a steady, calming, _ideal_ twelve breaths per minute. It feels a little patronizing, but his thigh is soft and warm, much better than the pillow Aziraphale had tried to offer in his place, and Crowley closes his eyes, allows his body to follow instruction, breathes in wool and sweetness and spices exactly once every five seconds.

He drapes his arm across the width of Aziraphale's legs, curls his hand around his hip. The edge of that too-long cardigan is soft under his fingertips, and he's greedy, slides his hand up Aziraphale's side and across his front. He's even softer than he was when everything happened, more substantial, warm to the touch and such a comfort to sink into. He loves Aziraphale's body; loves it for how it reflects its occupant, his passions and priorities; loves it aesthetically, sensually; has dreamt of loving it other ways, too.

"Read to me," Crowley sighs.

"Hmm?"

"It's _loud_ in here, read to me."

He doesn't need to open his eyes to picture the confusion on Aziraphale's face, but a moment later Crowley can smell old paper and leather, can hear Aziraphale begin, can feel the rumble of his voice where they touch. Crowley has heard the first line of this novel in passing, and when he eventually places it in his recollection, he laughs, a puff of breath against Aziraphale's leg.

"'It was the spring of--'" Aziraphale pauses. "Something amusing to you?"

Crowley waves his hand before returning it to Aziraphale's stomach. "It's just, really, Paris during the revolution?"

"Also London, hence the title." Aziraphale taps the cover. "I could choose something different, it's just that, well, I've been thinking about this novel quite a bit of late."

"'sfine." Crowley nuzzles against Aziraphale's leg, "you can read me anything." He huffs again as Aziraphale continues to read. Crowley had never heard this part of the opening lines, the part about Heaven and Hell. He squirms a little and fusses with a button on Aziraphale's sweater.

Aziraphale turns the page and reaches down to still Crowley's hand.

"Sorry," Crowley whispers. Aziraphale interlaces their fingers, and Crowley decides that the touch considerably lessens the sting of being corrected.

"Nonsense, dear, you're just fine." Aziraphale rubs his thumb along the back of Crowley's hand, and Crowley drifts to sleep that way, his head pillowed on Aziraphale's leg and their hands clasped together where his stomach rises and falls twelve times a minute, a perfect, soothing lull.

.

Soon, Aziraphale convinces him to get out of bed. It hurts less than he expects; it still hurts a great deal.

The change of scenery is nice. They start with short, shuffling steps to the window, Aziraphale's arm around Crowley's waist first keeping him upright and then helping to lower him to the edge of the seat.

Crowley gasps through the worst of the pain that seems to shoot up his torso from every movement of his lower body. When he's able, he looks up at Aziraphale and says, "Did you build a window seat in my flat?"

"Don't be preposterous." Aziraphale takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes at a smudge on the glass. "I didn't _build_ it."

"I'm not mad." Crowley's hand runs along the edge of the cushion: firm inside for support, soft outside for touch. It's almost become a motif. "Not crazy about the color."

Aziraphale sits beside him, gingerly, and holds up a throw pillow. It's ivory, with threads of blue and gold. "I suppose it's much more my style than yours."

Crowley's not exactly listening. The sun feels nice. He turns his face toward it, his pupils constricting as he basks. He's been cold for weeks, and the sun is warm on his exposed skin. This would be a perfect nap spot with the right configuration, especially widened a bit to accommodate two reclined figures. He's certainly not going to read _himself_ to sleep.

"How long, do you think, until I can lie on my back again?"

"Oh?" Aziraphale jumps just a little, and though it's impossible to know for certain, Crowley would almost swear that he caught Aziraphale staring at him, perhaps at the scattering of red scales on his stomach. They do shine in the sunlight.

Aziraphale sits the pillow back down and adjusts it several times before he says, "As soon as it's not too uncomfortable for you, I imagine. You're healing nicely, and the swelling is gone. Oh, and it's been weeks since the last of the bone chips worked its way to the surface--"

"What?"

"So while there may be cracks still healing I believe that the remaining bone is at least contiguous--"

"You can stop now." He shouldn't be able to feel nausea, and yet.

Crowley has even less medical knowledge than Aziraphale; where Aziraphale had sometimes been permitted to help the suffering and sick, Crowley had no plausible deniability, and, perhaps more importantly, if he's being totally honest with himself, and why not be, the bigger issue was that he couldn't really endure being around that kind of pain. It would seep under his skin, crowd in his chest until he felt strangled for breaths he didn't really need to take.

Aziraphale frowns. "I didn't intend to upset you."

"Who's upset?"

"You are. You look _stricken_."

"It's just exertion."

"Perhaps in part." Aziraphale's gaze is intense, and Crowley feels that he has little choice but to turn from the window and give Aziraphale the eye contact he clearly wants. He's rewarded with Aziraphale grazing his knuckles along Crowley's cheek. "Crowley, I-- May I ask you a question?" As if he could deny him right now. Crowley nods, and Aziraphale whispers, "Who did this?"

It both is and isn't the question Crowley expected. He pulls away, and Aziraphale withdraws his hand, and now he's the one who looks upset. Crowley did that, again. He turns back toward the window. "It doesn't matter."

"Beezelbub?"

"I don't see what difference--"

"Was it Hastur? I can imagine wanting revenge after losing one's other half, it's a common enough motivation, if not for sentimentality's sake then certainly for pride's. I can scarcely imagine how angry I would be had _you_ not survived. All my better angels, so to speak, may not have been enough to stay my hand."

"Your hands are better suited to tenderness than violence," Crowley whispers.

Aziraphale's smile is so sad when he says, "They've known and been distressingly adept at both."

Crowley takes a chance and takes Aziraphale's hand in his own, lifts it to his mouth and presses a gentle kiss to his fingers. It's an acknowledgment of Aziraphale's words and an acceptance of their truth, without judgment. _The past is past._ Though is it ever, really, Crowley wonders. He closes his eyes and holds Aziraphale's hand tightly.

After a long, long pause, Crowley finally answers. "Not Hastur. Your side."

"Oh." Aziraphale's hand is shaking now in Crowley's own. Their roles reverse for a moment, Crowley the one using gentle touches , if not to quiet the pained trembling, then at least to hold him through it.

They sit in silence for a time, long enough that the afternoon sun begins to fade into a brilliant sunset. "Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale squeezes his hand for the first time in possibly hours and says, "Not my side." There's no doubt in his voice this time. " _Our_ side is my side, remember? I promise you, Crowley, that I had no idea."

Crowley wants to cry, different from the physical agony of the past several weeks; different, too, from the existential ache that comes with losing a part of himself; these tears threatening now are relief. "I thought that maybe you knew," Crowley says, and he definitely is crying now. "I thought that was why you were so devoted to my recovery."

Aziraphale finds his handkerchief with his free hand and dries his own eyes before wiping at the tear tracks on Crowley's face. "I'm devoted to your recovery because I'm devoted to you, you silly soul." Aziraphale carefully shifts on the seat so that he can look Crowley properly in the eye. "Does hearing that help?"

Crowley isn't sure _what_ it helps, but he knows that his answer is truthful. "Yes."

"Oh, that's lovely. Then I shall tell you more often in the future."

That evening, Crowley lies on his back among a nest of pillows. It feels strange, a certain bulk or pressure under the bandages, but it doesn't hurt, at least not more than any other way he's lain, since. It's nice, too, that this way he can hold Aziraphale for the first time, those light curls resting on his shoulder, Aziraphale's once-violent, now-tender hand idly tracing the bits of red on Crowley's torso.

They have more to discuss, of course, but for tonight Crowley is content to make Aziraphale giggle with his version of how _A Tale of Two Cities_ should have ended, asserting that a noble sacrifice may make for good storytelling but also for a terrible story.

"We'll read something happier next," Aziraphale assures him.

"Good."

Aziraphale runs a soothing hand along Crowley's side. "Some of the characters were okay in the end, after a bit."

Crowley slides his fingers through Aziraphale's hair, as if to remind him that tonight it's Crowley's turn to offer comfort. "Oh, I know."

.

The plants barely even _act_ afraid when they see Crowley again.

He and Aziraphale are walking arm in arm through the leaves. It's not the first time they've taken a stroll through greenery with elbows linked; last time, it was Aziraphale's plants at the Dowlings' they were walking among, scheming to save the world; before then, it had been the late 1840s and they'd visited Kew, toured the newly built palm house. It was all wrought iron and hand-blown glass panels, so carefully and lovingly constructed, so wondrously grand, that the emotion of the place echoed _the_ garden, and full of plants that Crowley hadn't seen in entirely too long. If his eyes had been wet behind his glasses at any point that afternoon, good luck proving it.

Aziraphale pats Crowley's arm and asks, "Do you remember the elevated walkways at Kew?" Unnerving. Crowley nods, distracted by new shoots of green at the base of a plant he had specifically instructed to focus on improving itself, not spreading; disrespectful, is what it is. Aziraphale is still speaking, and Crowley tunes back in just in time to hear, "It felt a bit like flying." Then, "Oh. Oh, dear. I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"

"It's fine," Crowley lies, "I preferred slithering over flying anyway."

"Crowley."

"Look at these orchids," Crowley says a bit too loudly, desperate for a change of subject.

"They're beautiful," Aziraphale says. His voice is uncertain, but he tries to follow Crowley's lead. "They mean love, don't they?"

"Among other things. Refinement, beauty. I was growing them for you, you know."

"Crowley--"

"The white ones also mean hope, which felt appropriate, then of course the obvious connotations of wealth and luxury, you like the finer things which is one reason why I--"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale snaps.

Crowley can't hide his flinch, nor the bolt of pain that accompanies it. Aziraphale immediately reaches out with both hands to steady him, his palms warm on Crowley's bare skin. Crowley is breathing hard, perhaps from the pain, and Aziraphale just waits patiently while Crowley comes back to himself and slowly uncoils.

Once satisfied, Aziraphale smiles, soft and almost sheepish. "I didn't mean to raise my voice, dear, I simply needed your attention."

 _You have it, you've always had it_. Crowley nods. "I was saying a lot," he allows, "perhaps too much."

"No, not 'too much,'" Aziraphale says, the meaning heavy between them. His smile brightens. "I would very much like to hear every word. I just thought perhaps a seat and a cup of tea might be nice?"

Crowley feels a little fluttery: Aziraphale wants to hear what he has to say, he seems receptive. Crowley is tentatively hopeful like his white orchids, and he keeps his head turned away from Aziraphale as they walk toward the kitchen because he doesn't want Aziraphale to see the undignified jitters forcing their way onto his face.

That's why Crowley's eyes catch a glimpse of the entryway as they pass. He can feel protection Aziraphale put on the door, wards powered by ancient knowledge; he thinks of Anathema suddenly, and wonders whether she had a part in this; she probably at least recommended a book. This precaution, this care, would be comforting, were it not the second thing he noticed. The first: a large area rug covering most of the floor.

Demon blood doesn't wash out easily, and it certainly doesn't vanish with the wave of an angel's hand. To Aziraphale's credit, this rug is decidedly _not_ his style, and was clearly chosen to match as closely as possible the floor surrounding it. It would have been easier, Crowley thinks, to just will a layer of tile over the whole mess, though maybe Aziraphale didn't want to presume. He'd probably chosen the rug weeks before taking it upon himself to install the window seat and make himself at home.

It's only a few minutes later that Crowley is sitting in that same window seat with Aziraphale, a mug of hot tea warming his hands. The sun is shining through Aziraphale's hair, shimmering. He catches Crowley's eye and says, "Did you want to finish your thought from earlier?"

Crowley stares off. He can't see the entryway from here, but he's looking in that direction, throat tight. He's being sullen, morose, and it's pointless and he knows that but he can't stop it now any more than he'd been able to a thousand times in the past. He'd been very nearly happy, what, fifteen minutes ago?

"Oh, I'm not sure I remember," Crowley says, and he should be better at lying by now; he's lied to Hell for millennia and tricked Heaven fairly recently, though, look how that had turned out. "Probably something about how orchids are much more affordable and more readily available than they once were but still maintain a traditional association with affluence."

"Ah, yes," Aziraphale murmurs. Crowley sneaks a glance at him and oh, he looks so hurt, mouth turned down and cheeks red.

"I'm very tired," Crowley says, though he's not sure whether it's meant as an excuse or an explanation.

They finish their tea, and Aziraphale helps him to bed. He arranges the pillows, he pulls the curtains, he even smooths the hair back from Crowley's forehead; but he doesn't stay.

.

Days later, Crowley wakes from a nightmare of arms holding him down, of metal and blood and tearing, of being back on that floor surrounded by blinding light and a pain worse than falling, an arrogant laugh and taunting words he couldn't make out through his own screaming.

His eyes when he opens them are wet, as is the pillowcase and the sheets. He smells of terror sweat, sour and sick. For the first time in weeks, he wishes he had… well.

There's a hurried knock at the bedroom door, Aziraphale's voice strained and scared. "Crowley?" Crowley's throat won't work, he can't force air past his vocal cords to speak, and after a moment Aziraphale asks, "May I come in? I just want to see that you're alright. Please."

Crowley finally manages a sound, but it's just a wet gasp. He hears the door open; he'll be surprised, later, to realize _he_ was the one who opened it, even as he sat on the bed with a pillow hugged to his chest. So he hasn't been rendered entirely powerless.

Aziraphale steps in slowly, wrings his hands a moment until Crowley reaches for him. He crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed. His hands twitch at his sides. "A bad dream?"

Crowley nods. "My wings." 

Aziraphale somehow looks even paler than he did a moment before. "I should have been here when you woke," he begins, but Crowley shakes his head. 

"Not your job."

"Of course it's my job." Aziraphale gives him a look as if he'd just disputed that the Earth is round.

Oh, Crowley hates the rawness in his voice when he asks, "Then why did you stop sleeping here?"

"I, well, I thought it best to stop that, just until we were on the same page. I didn't intend to take advantage of the situation to assert a level of intimacy we never explicitly discussed, though I'm aware that I did just that." Aziraphale purses his lips. "I'm sorry for that, incidentally. I don't want you to think I had ulterior motives; I was, at the time, just doing what felt natural."

Crowley can still taste bile, and he wants desperately to make a joke. "Sleeping together felt natural, then?"

"Of course it did. I believe we fit quite well together, don't we, and--" He pauses, cheeks red. "I didn't mean in the _colloquial_ sense."

Crowley feels much better suddenly. With an exaggerated wink, he says, "Well, we wouldn't know that yet, would we, angel?"

Aziraphale's eyes immediately shine, and Crowley frowns.

"Was a joke," he starts an apology, "don't--"

"That's the first time you've called me that since… And I believe that I know why you haven't, well, that is to say, I'd certainly understand if you didn't want an angel around." 

Aziraphale is just being stupid, but Crowley doesn't want to say that, nor does he want to say that he wants Aziraphale around always, and yet he says, "You're being stupid, I always want you around."

"Oh." Aziraphale brightens. This time, when Crowley offers his hand, Aziraphale takes it.

Crowley's second try is what he wishes he had said the first time, which is, "Would you hate me for something some other demon did?"

"Of course not!" He looks almost scandalized by the notion. "I could never hate you, Anthony J. Crowley, not even when I was supposed to, nor when it would have made certain situations considerably easier for me."

Crowley looks up from where he's tracing the lines of Aziraphale's palm. "Did you try? To hate me?" He frowns. 

"Not in a very, very long time," Aziraphale says quietly, "and not very hard even then." 

"I'm grateful," Crowley says, hoping the simple words convey the universes he intends.

If Aziraphale's wet eyes are an indication, they do. "As am I."

Crowley takes Aziraphale's hand in both of his own now. Barely a twinge when he moves his arms these days, provided he keeps them below his shoulders. "I'd offer you a hug," he says sincerely, "but--" 

Aziraphale sniffles. "But you're worried it may make me cry more rather than less?"

"No, you can cry as much or as little as you like." Crowley squeezes his hand. "I was going to say, 'but I smell like a 1600s influenza ward.'"

"Oh!" Aziraphale is suddenly so excited he can't quite sit still. "I'll draw you a bath!"

"I don't have a bathtub," Crowley tells him, but Aziraphale just pats his hand and leaves the room with a cheery wave.

"I'll be back in a moment, just wait for me!"

"Aziraphale!" But wait he does, dutifully, as always.

.

Not only does he have a bathtub now, but it's a very nice one, built into a previously empty corner of his previously much smaller bathroom. It's black, a concession to the room, and looks like it's been carved from a single piece of stone, including the steps up the side and the wide ledge around three sides that extends to where the two walls meet. That's a good idea, Crowley thinks, lest one's candles and wine glass end up on the floor.

He raises an eyebrow to Aziraphale who says, "Those aren't for, I wasn't trying to -- _stop staring at me_ \-- they're from my bath several days ago."

Crowley flicks a finger toward the corner; tiny flames appear on the wicks, and there are now _two_ wine glasses. "White or red?"

"Red," Aziraphale says, though Crowley knows he prefers white. "Someone seems to be feeling a bit better."

"Small miracles." Crowley laughs at his own joke.

Aziraphale shakes his head fondly as he rolls up his sleeves. He holds a hand out to Crowley, who hesitates.

Before Aziraphale had returned to the bedroom, a robe had appeared at the foot of the bed, shiny black satin lined with something soft. Crowley had changed into it, shivering at how the fabric glided over his skin. It's long-sleeved, nearly floor-length; it's the first time Crowley has had what he considers to be the dignity of being fully covered since this all began, and he's reluctant to give that up.

Yet Aziraphale still extends his hand. "You forget, my dear, that I've seen you in a bathtub before."

"When did you-- Oh." When Aziraphale _went to Hell for him_ , not knowing for certain that he could survive whatever they had planned for Crowley but willing to risk his eternal existence for him. For _them_.

It feels silly under the enormity of that particular truth to worry about something like modesty, so he joins Aziraphale on the plush half-moon rug beside the tub and lets the robe fall from his shoulders. Aziraphale catches it before it hits the ground, affecting an overly exasperated tsk even as he takes in Crowley's body.

He looks everywhere, even at Crowley's chest, his wrists and shoulders, skin he's bared more than not for weeks now. The scrutiny is almost enough to make Crowley squirm. Aziraphale's gaze seems to linger longest where the scales on Crowley's stomach give way to short curls the same shade of red, then lower.

Aziraphale's looking at him like he's a brilliant autumn sunset, a rare first edition, a perfectly caramelized crème brûlée.

It's less lust than appreciation, though, and Crowley isn't sure how he feels about that. He tamps down disappointment; chastises himself for wanting more, for almost _expecting_ it after their recent aborted conversations. They _are_ on the same page, finally, he feels nearly certain of that, but maybe Aziraphale has a slightly different edition. Crowley can work with that.

Once Aziraphale has looked his fill, he helps Crowley up the stairs, one hand at the small of his back. There are steps on the inside, too, shallower, and something of a seat opposite the faucet, though there's still plenty of room to submerge fully. It's quite the extravagant bathtub. Crowley is so very fond of his ridiculous epicurean angel.

He hesitates before sitting, but Aziraphale guides his hip down with one warm hand. "It won't hurt to get the bandages wet," he says softly. "We'll leave them on until the end, then they should come off easily with the water and steam." Crowley trusts him.

"I want to get _properly_ clean," he says, "my first bath in weeks with real water and all, but it's still a bit difficult to hold my arms over my head."

Aziraphale is sitting on the ledge behind him, so Crowley can't see his face but he can hear that there's no irritation in his voice when he says, "I was already planning to wash your hair, my dear, and of course to help in any other way you may need." He uses his fingers to comb the tangles from Crowley's hair, lingering longer than strictly necessary over the back of his neck, around his ear, where curls are developing in the humidity of the room. "Obviously, it's your hair and you should do as you wish with it," Aziraphale says softly, "I'll even cut it for you if you ask, but oh, I do adore when it grows out a bit."

"I miss it." Crowley surprises himself with the admission.

"As do I." Aziraphale's fingers catch on a tangle, and he rubs soothingly at the root where it pulled. "I could always find you by it. I could feel you, too, of course, but there was something special about catching sight of you in a crowd by spotting that cascading brilliance."

"Angel," Crowley murmurs.

Aziraphale clears his throat and takes a sip from the nearer of the two glasses. He doesn't say anything further, just gently tips Crowley's chin back so he can pour pitchers of water down the length of his hair.

Crowley blinks the water from his lashes and looks again at his new bathtub. Close like this, he notices that it's not solid black; rather, the stone has specks of silver throughout, even a few veins spilling out like the arms of spiral galaxies.

He closes his eyes when he smells some kind of shampoo or soap. If he didn't know that he owns no such thing, he would swear that the scent includes myrrh. Maybe it does. Aziraphale's fingers feel amazing as he massages Crowley's scalp.

"Angel," he sighs. Then: "You're allowed."

"Hmm?" Aziraphale brushes some stray bubbles from Crowley's forehead. "Allowed?"

"You're allowed. To… do nice things." _Romantic things,_ he wants to say. "I know you didn't, but if you _had_ put out the candles for me -- you're allowed. If you want to sleep in the bed -- you're allowed."

"I think that--" Aziraphale stops. He seems to be struggling for the words, and finally says, "It's still very much a novel idea that I might be allowed."

"You _are_ allowed."

Aziraphale pours a pitcher of fresh water over Crowley's head, then presses his mouth to his clean hair. It's not quite a kiss. His mouth is very close to Crowley's ear when he says, "Then it's an idea to which I intend to grow accustomed, I assure you." Crowley shivers.

The next pitcher of water, bless Aziraphale's stupid, lovely, overly literal heart, is just this side of too hot, but Crowley doesn't want to complain.

Once Aziraphale is content that Crowley's hair has been rinsed thoroughly, he takes down a towel from a linen shelf that also wasn't there a few weeks ago, and gently dries it, combs it back with his fingers, tucks the longest strands behind his ears. Crowley considers creating a few bobby pins, but he's feeling tired after the flames and the wine.

The wine that Aziraphale is giving his full attention to now that Crowley's hair is settled, and Crowley takes that as his cue to take the soap and washcloth on the edge of the tub and wash himself.

It feels _amazing_. Wiping his body in bed or having Aziraphale miracle him clean was sufficient, but it's so much more satisfying to scrub at his skin with lather and the scratchy cloth he prefers. He would never admit it, but he sometimes thinks of bathing as a spiritual experience; ablution; a cleansing, even though he's been told countless times that he'll forever be unclean, an abomination.

 _Bugger all that_ , he thinks.

He scours his body: first, his face until it shines pink; then his throat, his neck, letting the water run down over the bandages on his back; his arms from shoulder down to fingertips, even scrubbing under his nails; his chest, washing away last night's terror sweat; lower, still, with a gentleness reserved for only his most delicate places.

Which reminds him. "You were staring, before I got in the bath."

He hears Aziraphale swallow several mouthfuls of wine. "I was."

Crowley touches himself under the water, not for gratification but rather to take stock. He's been left with what he was wearing the afternoon of the attack, having had no ability, no energy, nor any real reason to change it. He's speaking to Aziraphale but staring straight ahead when he asks, "Is that a problem, my not having a cock just now?"

Aziraphale sounds like he's choking a bit on his wine, and Crowley smirks. It was the language he chose, he knows. But once Aziraphale has breath again, he says, "Of course not," and Crowley believes him.

And yet. "A surprise, then?"

"Not a surprise, exactly. I knew it was either a, ahem, a vulva or _nothing_ , at least as of a few days ago when we were sleeping toge-- beside one another. I likely would have felt had anything more been there."

"Then why the staring?"

"Goodness, Crowley!" Aziraphale sounds flustered, and Crowley can't help grinning, grateful that Aziraphale can't see him to think that he's laughing at him. He's not. "Because I haven't seen one in several centuries. Other than my own on a few rare occasions, but that's different, isn't it?" There's a pause, then Aziraphale adds in a rush, "Besides, this one is _yours_. I should have been more discreet, or better yet behaved properly from the start by averting my eyes, but my curiosity got the better of me." He takes a breath. "Please don't be too embarrassed, as despite my poor behavior I couldn't see much."

"True," Crowley says, trying not to laugh, "it's hidden away a bit better than than the dangly alternative." Aziraphale sighs audibly, and Crowley tips his head back to gaze up at him. "Hi, angel."

Aziraphale smiles softly, amusement and affection equally apparent on his face. "Hello, dear."

Upside down isn't satisfactory, so with a fair bit of splashing Crowley manages to turn around, kneeling on the granite seat and folding his arms on the ledge where Aziraphale is sitting. Aziraphale glances down for just a moment at where the puddle under Crowley's arms is inching closer to him, then seems to decide it doesn't matter. He slides the second, untouched wine glass toward Crowley and says, "I assume that you intended this for yourself?"

"Unless you want it?" When Aziraphale shakes his head, Crowley rearranges his limbs so he can pick up the glass. He holds it out toward Aziraphale, who raises his own. "To us," Crowley says, because it's what he'd actually meant that afternoon at the Ritz.

"To us," Aziraphale agrees, and neither of the two looks away from the other as they clink their glasses.

If Crowley's hair weren't still damp, he'd nuzzle against Aziraphale's knee, that's how nice this moment feels. Aziraphale takes another drink of his wine, but his gaze never leaves Crowley's eyes, not even when he sits his wine aside and ghosts a knuckle along Crowley's cheek.

Crowley leans into it. Despite all the affection the past few weeks, he'd lived through millenia without touch, which he shouldn't want and certainly shouldn't need but he _does_ ; he's thriving under Aziraphale's attention. He closes his hand over Aziraphale's, presses it more firmly, palm to cheek, then puts his other hand on Aziraphale's jaw.

He's never kissed anyone, but he's watched enough television to know the basic idea. He knows that he could just stretch up a bit more, tip Aziraphale's chin down, and touch his lips to Aziraphale's for the first time.

But he doesn't. Maybe it's enough to just keep smiling at each other, to touch like this, to be safe behind wards in a warm room with wine and sweet-smelling soap. Maybe it's enough to have this, even if he wants more.

It's Aziraphale who breaks the silence, and that tender smile never wavers though his eyes go wet and scared. "I want," he whispers softly.

It could be a sentence all its own, but Crowley waits, then finally says, "Tell me what you want."

"I--" A single tear falls down Aziraphale's cheek. Crowley brushes it away, then gently touches his thumb to Aziraphale's mouth.

"Tell me what you want," he repeats. _If it's within my power, I'll grant it_. And if it's not, well, better to know now.

Aziraphale opens his mouth, closes it; then twice more; before finally saying, "I want to kiss you."

 _Yesss_. "Then kiss me, angel."

"But do _you_ \--"

Cards on the table, as they say: "For longer than you'd believe."

That must be all the confirmation Aziraphale needs, because he leans forward and kisses Crowley. Oh, his lips are soft, and their touch even softer. Not some hurried, harsh, frenzied thing as Crowley had expected and been a bit apprehensive about; rather, it's a series of feather-light brushes between quiet sighs.

Aziraphale is still cradling Crowley's cheek as if he's something precious, and his other hand is stroking the hair at the base of Crowley's skull. Crowley is definitely going to grow it out, he decides with the bit of his brain currently capable of thought, because he wants Aziraphale's touch there always.

 _Always_. It's a heavy word; heavier, still, when your always is eternity. No matter, because he has complete clarity on this one point.

He slides his hand into Aziraphale's hair, because Aziraphale's hand feels nice in his own and he wants to give that to him as well, wants to make Aziraphale feel good and happy and _loved_ \--

"Oh," Aziraphale breathes against his mouth the moment he has that thought, then kisses him again, so softly, so sweetly, "I do."

"Angel," Crowley murmurs, "angel, I--" But he can't finish the thought before he has to kiss Aziraphale again, a firmer press this time, his fingers digging into the back of Aziraphale's neck.

Aziraphale pulls back just far enough to say, "I know. I know, sweetheart." Something deep inside Crowley flutters, and Aziraphale tips his chin so they're looking into each other's eyes when he adds, "And I, you." He tucks Crowley's face against his neck and wraps his arms around his shoulders, heedless of Crowley's wet skin. "So lovely," Aziraphale says against his ear, "I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did."

Crowley grips the back of Aziraphale's sweater, twisting the wool between trembling fingers. "Uh huh."

He can feel Aziraphale's smile when he kisses his temple. "We shall have to do it again, then, perhaps after you finish your bath."

"So that's what we were doing," Crowley says, only half-joking, as Aziraphale gently pulls away. His smile is brilliant, and he squeezes Crowley's hand before reaching again for his wine.

Crowley somewhat reluctantly turns away and resumes washing his body, his hips, thighs, legs. He's about finished when he hears Aziraphale's glass against the granite, then his voice saying, _asking_ , "Allow me?"

All Crowley can do is stare as Aziraphale rounds the bathtub, stopping at Crowley's feet. He pushes his sleeves up a bit more, then reaches into the water, gently lifting Crowley's foot and working soap over his skin. He lowers it into the water, then pays the same careful attention to the other. 

The significance isn't lost on Crowley. He might have fallen out of touch with Jesus a few years before the end, but he's had nearly two thousand years since then to catch up on the stories, and he knows Aziraphale knows them, too. They both know what Aziraphale is saying right now, the significance of this act. _We're equals_ , he says with gentle hands; with water, _You're worthy_.

Aziraphale trails his fingers along the glimmering granite as he walks behind Crowley and takes his seat. "Would you like brunch once we're finished here? I could make eggs and toast, or, oh, we could have something delivered."

"There aren't as many quaint cafés near here as you have at home."

"Home?"

"Your bookshop, Aziraphale."

"Oh. Oh, right, of course. Well, surely _someone_ delivers near here, it doesn't need to be traditional brunch fare after all. What sounds good to you?" Before Crowley can answer, Aziraphale leans forward and touches his arm, says quietly, "I believe the tape and bandages should come right off, but please do let me know if I hurt you." Then, sitting up, in his normal voice, "When was the last time we ate Mediterranean?"

If it were anyone else, Crowley would be sure this was a transparent attempt at distracting him from the dressing change, but it's Aziraphale, so there's a better than even chance that it's a real question. He thinks about it, and says, "2014 or so? The Dowlings were away on holiday and Warlock was being a little terror, so we chose some noisy family-run restaurant." The server had clearly thought that the kid was theirs, and Crowley supposes that he sort of was, at the time; she spent the evening eyeing them with a disapproval that had nothing to do with thinking they were a gay couple, Crowley back in his own clothes for the evening, and everything to do with thinking they needed to rein in their awful son. That had been Aziraphale's job, though, and Crowley did _his_ part by making sure Warlock drank all the cola his little body could handle, and then some.

"I believe you're right." Aziraphale's touch is so careful, holding Crowley's skin still as he peels away the tape, not wanting it to pull at the new skin. "The lamb was so tender."

"Their baklava," Crowley adds. He doesn't enjoy food as much as Aziraphale does, but occasionally a dish will impress him, and this one had, perfectly crisp phyllo dough, freshly ground cinnamon, proper vanilla bean extract. His favorite part was the way honey had glistened on Aziraphale's lips after he took the last bite from Crowley's fork. "It was perfect, wasn't it, angel?"

"Divine," Aziraphale agrees, then pauses. Crowley is about to remind him that he doesn't care about his word choices, then he feels the last of the bandages come away and realizes that Aziraphale is distracted. He wants to ask whether it's that bad, especially when he hears Aziraphale's little sigh, but he feels Aziraphale kiss the top of his spine before he says, "Your back is healing quite nicely. The wounds are closed. We shouldn't need to bandage them any longer. I'm not sure it was strictly necessary to start, superhuman healing and such, and it's not as if we're generally susceptible to bacteria, but it seemed better to err on the side of caution." He lightly brushes down Crowley's spine, between the twin scars, and asks, "Does that hurt, touching between them?"

"I don't know," Crowley says, "it doesn't hurt but it doesn't feel good, it's just pressure and it burns a little. No, not burns. More like electricity?"

"Nerve damage, most likely," Aziraphale says. He starts to pull away, but Crowley leans back to follow his touch, so Aziraphale lifts his hand to pet Crowley's hair. "Hopefully, if I focus there, versus where they-- where they actually _touched_ you, I can heal some of it." Even with all his stubbornness, Aziraphale gave up weeks ago on healing the sites of the injuries themselves, cursed or blessed in a way he couldn't penetrate, but he still holds out this other hope, and oh, Crowley loves him.

He wants to turn to tell him that while he still has the words, but Aziraphale has started to wash his back. It's just soap and warm water, no washcloth, no scrubbing or pressure. When he's finished, he presses another kiss to the top of Crowley's spine, then to the back of his head, then to the crown as he stands. Crowley looks up at him as he walks around the side of the tub, holding out a hand to help Crowley up and out.

"I'm done with my bath," Crowley says, reaching for him, "you said we could kiss again." Aziraphale shakes his head, but he smiles and kisses the tip of Crowley's nose before holding the long black robe up for him to slip into.

He does, feeling the smooth fabric lay across his back. He braces himself, but it doesn't really hurt, just feels _odd_. It takes him a few moments, until he is tying it shut in front of him, to realize what is strange.

A fair bit of the bulk he had previously attributed solely to the bandages is still there. His back isn't smooth, not even close. Something is _wrong_.

He's not thinking about kissing anymore, not even really thinking of Aziraphale other than as a means to an end. "I want to see," he practically growls.

"Crowley, it's not necessary to do that today, is it?" Aziraphale's words are practically a plea, and that is itself damning. "Wouldn't you rather I order some baklava and you can choose a film for us to watch?"

Ten minutes ago, that was _all_ Crowley wanted, perhaps with the addition of some more kissing if they got bored by whatever mediocre action flick he chose, but now Crowley needs to _know_. He just points toward the bedroom, where there's a full-length mirror in one corner. Aziraphale purses his lips, but he says nothing further before going to retrieve the mirror.

Crowley leans heavily on the counter, watches in the large vanity mirror as Aziraphale carries the mirror through the door. When things are arranged to Crowley's satisfaction, he lets the top of the robe slip down. It catches on his elbows, and Crowley's breath catches in his throat.

He had known it wasn't a clean cut, of course, but even with all of Aziraphale's talk of splintered bone, Crowley isn't prepared for what he sees. Because the cuts weren't flush against his back, no, he has two huge knots on either side of his spine, and with a kind of dawning horror he recognizes them as his wing joints, an inch or two of what had once been his wings still attached but immobilized by damage and scar tissue.

And it's so _unfair_ that his wings are gone but these ugly remains won't go away, not ever. Even if they stop hurting someday, he'll always feel them when he moves his shoulders or arches his back, these ugly things protruding from his once intact body. They'll ruin the lines of his clothes, serve as a reminder of the second worst day of his endless existence, and make him repulsive, hideous to the eye with his weakness, his brokenness, writ across his body.

It's so much _worse_ than he had let himself believe. He can't breathe. That would normally be fine, because he doesn't need to, but he has something to say, rage and grief that will destroy him if left unspoken. He forces his lungs to pull a shuddering breath, then he addresses Her directly for only the second time in several millennia.

"Why?" he demands. "Why would You want this, why would You allow Your children to do this to me? Was I not Your child once, too? A mother is supposed to protect her children, even if she doesn't like them should she not still love them? Does Your breast not still ache for the life You created? Do You really not love me, Mother?" His face and his knees crumple at the same time, and he sinks to the floor as a sob tears from his chest. "I never stopped loving You."

"Crowley." Aziraphale sounds like he might be crying, stepping closer and reaching out to him, but Crowley shakes his head hard and Aziraphale stops. Crowley can't bear to see the way he's probably hurt him, so he turns his gaze Heavenward.

"Was this little revenge the archangel's reward for making You proud? An obedient child, so worthy of love. When You have such a fine gold star boy, it doesn't hurt to forsake one rotten apple. 'Course, forsaking is _what You do_ , isn't it?" Crowley accuses. "But at least when You killed the carpenter it played into some bigger plan. His suffering had a purpose, didn't it? Everyone loves a sacrifice! You most of all! But what kind of fucking plan is possibly served by _this?_ " He gestures at his reflection in the floor mirror, which flies backward, the frame splintering and the glass shattering against the wall.

He's demanding answers he knows will never come, but he can't stop. "Nothing happens on this dying world without Your allowing it. When oceans or mountains destroy a city, when the humans forget they're one and slaughter each other in the name of improving Your creation, war and genocide and blood spilled in Your name, when Your creations' creations poison the very air they breathe, it's all done with Your permission and tacit approval. Why did I expect special treatment, then? Against millions of human lives snuffed out on a madman's whim, what's one mutilated fallen angel?"

The tile is hard under his knees as he sobs on the floor, his back bared and the robe tangled around his legs. The horror is quickly giving way to exhaustion, and with the latter comes a certain clarity. He feels stronger, somehow, when he says, "I never gave up on winning Your favor back someday. I had eternity, after all. Any discarded child dreams of their parents admitting they were wrong and welcoming them home with open arms. But You and I are finally on the same page about each other. Because this is horrifying, what You've let them do to me. It's unforgivable. _You're unforgivable_."

He's finished. What more is there to say? He stares at the floor, scared to look up at Aziraphale, scared of what he'll see on that lovely face, scared that he won't even _be_ there when Crowley finally makes himself look. He knew the things he was saying would hurt Aziraphale, and he’d voiced them regardless; he wouldn't blame him if he left and never came back.

The thought brings fresh tears. He's too exhausted to sob anymore, his entire body aches, but he manages to weep softly, his hitching breaths loud in the too-still room.

He doesn't know how long passes, but he becomes aware that Aziraphale has come closer, is standing over him. Perhaps to smite him, Crowley thinks desperately; imagine, surviving Armageddon, a Heavenly execution, and the violent removal of his wings, just to die at his best friend's hand as he sits weeping on his bathroom floor. He won't put up a fight, he decides. He won't hurt Aziraphale any more than he already has.

Crowley flinches when Aziraphale reaches for him, but Aziraphale's touch is gentle, and his words even more so.

"Come, dear, it's fine to cry, you have so much cause, but not here." He lifts Crowley as if he weighs nothing, cradles him to his chest as he did the night he found him lying in his own blood, and carries him back to his bed. Aziraphale lays him gently among the pillows and stretches out behind him, his warm chest pressed to Crowley's back and his arms tight around him.

"You don't have to stay," Crowley whispers. He has to say this while he has the will. "I'm well enough now to look after myself, you can go, you don't owe me a thing."

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale sighs, "I hate that I've given you cause to believe that. I've been so unkind to you over the years." He runs soothing hands over Crowley's arms, pushing up the sleeves of his robe so they can touch, skin to skin. "Perhaps that's my nature, but that's no excuse. I can try to be better than where I came from, just as you have."

Crowley shakes his head. "I'm not, I'm nothing."

"Hush," Aziraphale says. "I know I should let you speak, but that's simply untrue. You're not nothing, Crowley, you're, you're-- I love you, in case that was unclear before; I'm in love with you. You know, right? You know that I love you?"

His voice is strangled, but he manages, "Yes."

"And I know that I've lied to you before, and I'm sorry, but I'm telling the truth now. I love you and I'm never leaving again. You know that, too?"

"Please," Crowley whimpers, unsure what he's asking for.

Whatever it is, Aziraphale seems prepared to give it to him. "Of course, dearheart, of course. I choose you."

"You--" Crowley shakes his head. "I don't--"

"I choose you," Aziraphale repeats. "You're right: She is unforgivable. So I choose you. I've already turned my back on Heaven, and I would turn my back on the Almighty Herself if you asked."

Crowley gasps and turns in Aziraphale's arms, sees the sincerity in Aziraphale's gaze. It shakes him to the core, knowing that Aziraphale means those words in this moment even if he may regret them tomorrow. All Crowley can do is cling to Aziraphale's arms and shake his head. No, he doesn't want that for Aziraphale, doesn't want that emptiness in his soul, doesn't want to see him fall.

After a time, Crowley whispers, "Just stay with me."

"I intend to." Aziraphale kisses his forehead, both his cheeks, then a chaste press of lips on lips. Aziraphale tugs up the blanket that Crowley had kicked to the foot of the bed after his nightmare, mere hours before. It feels softer than Crowley remembers, gentle against his exposed skin, somehow warm to the touch.

He's already losing the fight to stay awake, but he raises a hand to Aziraphale's cheek and says, "I, uh. Love you, too. If _that_ was unclear."

Aziraphale's beautiful eyes shine as he nods. "I know, but I don't think I'll tire of hearing it soon, maybe ever."

Crowley tucks his head against Aziraphale's chest, under his chin, murmurs into his shoulder, "Sorry."

"You needn't apologize." Aziraphale strokes the back of Crowley's head.

"No, I-- Sorry, because you wanted brunch."

Aziraphale laughs, just a huff of breath that ruffles Crowley's hair. "That's perfectly fine, my love."

 _My love_. Oh, that's nice.

Crowley sleeps. There are no more nightmares.

. 

He wakes a few hours later, early evening perhaps, feeling disoriented and a little panicked. "Angel?"

Aziraphale closes his book and reaches down to brush the hair from Crowley's forehead. "I'm right here." He's leaning against the headboard, sitting beside Crowley's nest of pillows. 

Crowley sits up to meet Aziraphale's eyes. "For clarity's sake," he begins, "I want to be sure that we both-- I'm in love with you, Aziraphale, have been a lo-- little while, and I want to be with you, I'm not even sure what that entails but I want you and I want us to be together against the world, all the worlds, and I don't want you to be with anyone else or love anyone else, at least not like that, I mean. Let me keep you, and you can keep me too, and we'll be…" He trails off, having forgotten what he was saying.

But Aziraphale, clever thing, just guides Crowley's head to his chest and says, "That's what I want, too. You don't have to keep asking, though I'm happy enough to reassure you. I did say just a few days ago that I would endeavor to remind you more often of my devotion."

"Devotion," Crowley repeats, already feeling sluggish and tired.

"Yes, darling. Now rest, please, and I promise that I'll still be right here when you wake." 

Crowley closes his eyes and yawns. "I had to check," he murmurs, "make sure that I wasn't dreaming earlier. 've had that dream before, angel."

"It's real now," Aziraphale assures him, and Crowley hums contentedly before sleeping again.

.

He had thought mere weeks before that as he got stronger, there'd be no reason for them to touch, that he'd have to re-adjust to longing for contact while Aziraphale sat just too far away to reach.

But no, he's so damned _blessed_ , and the irony isn't lost on him but he is, he's so blessed that he can touch Aziraphale whenever he wants to, can take his hand at breakfast, nap on his lap in the warm early afternoon, can hug him tight around his soft belly while he stands at the stove waiting on the kettle to make cocoa in the evening.

He can even sit on Aziraphale's lap on the sofa, a movie on the television long forgotten, can wrap his long arms around him or lace his fingers together behind his neck, and kiss him long and slow or quick and messy, can kiss him any way he likes, all inexperience and enthusiasm like silly human teenagers; he can press forward and feel the hardness in Aziraphale's trousers, an answer to Crowley's own better obscured but no less significant desire. He's glad to be back in proper clothes, which hopefully conceal his arousal -- the goosebumps, his hard nipples, the wetness between his thighs -- better than nightclothes would have.

But when Aziraphale stops kissing him to just _look_ at him instead, softly adoring eyes and a radiant smile, he quickly frowns and says, "My dear, are you in pain?"

Crowley takes a moment to check in with his body. "No more than usual, angel. Less, if anything. Why?"

Aziraphale touches Crowley's cheek and says, "Your eyes. They're rather… yellow. I've only seen them this way a few times, such as the night you called me, and after your bath, when you saw…" He trails off, but presses a kiss to the corner of Crowley's mouth as if to finish the thought, or to apologize for having started it. "But if you're not in pain, and you're not angry…" It's Aziraphale's eyes now that look almost comically wide. "Oh, love, am I _scaring_ you?"

"What are you--?" Crowley snorts. "I'm not scared, why would I be scared?"

Aziraphale actually _blushes_ , and here Crowley had thought there was nothing he could do to endear himself more. "Because," he explains, "I'm being a bit… handsy." 

"'Handsy'?" Crowley shakes his head. "Your hands are on my _waist_."

"Yes," Aziraphale agrees, clearly misunderstanding, "but they certainly don't need to be, I can slow down, there's no rush--"

"Oh!" Crowley points downward. "'m aroused." He presses more firmly against Aziraphale, who tries to shoot him a reproachful look, though it's much less compelling accompanied by a quiet groan. "Didn't know it would show up in my eyes, that's kind of funny."

"It's not _funny_ , I thought that I'd hurt you."

Crowley kisses Aziraphale softly, first his mouth and then his cheek, before stretching forward to whisper in his ear. "It's a _little_ funny."

Aziraphale huffs, then oh so gently tugs Crowley back so he can see him, frames Crowley's face with his hands and just takes him in. "If you look like this right now, after a handful of kisses, I can scarcely imagine what you'll look like laid out underneath me."

"You--" Crowley closes his eyes and hisses, "You can't just _say_ things like that."

"No?" Aziraphale puts one hand on the small of Crowley's back and the other at the base of his skull, cradles him against his chest. Crowley has a moment of feeling condescended to before settling into feeling protected. Aziraphale isn't holding him like a child, he shouldn't think of it like that; he's simply holding him, full stop. "I suppose it would have been more proper to say 'what you would look like' instead of 'will look like,' rather than assume." He rubs soothing circles against Crowley's back. "Issues of verb tense aside, I was hoping we could be forthright with one another going forward."

Crowley nuzzles against Aziraphale's shoulder, presses his cold nose against the warm skin of Aziraphale's throat. "We can, we will be. Just surprised me, you talking like that."

"It was hardly graphic."

"Still." Crowley blinks up at Aziraphale. "I could sleep just like this, you know."

"I don't doubt that." Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley's forehead. "You may," he says; permission, not probability.

Crowley tips his chin up to catch Aziraphale's mouth for another kiss, awkward angle and tugging of his back be damned, then snaps his fingers. A blanket falls over them, a single rectangle somehow arranged perfectly over one seated and one reclining figure, and Crowley pulls a book from among the folds of fabric. "Read to me, angel?"

"Of course." It's Austen, some novel Crowley has never read and Aziraphale surely has, and that's going to remain true, as Aziraphale will no doubt continue reading long after Crowley is asleep.

.

Crowley wakes alone, still on the sofa but with a pillow under his head and several more blankets over him than before. Austen lies on the armrest, and just beside the pillow is his phone and a note: _I've gone out for a few things. Please do call if you need me. -Aziraphale._

"Who else?" he says aloud, even as his finger traces over the name.

He closes his eyes, but sleep evades him, replaced with a jittery sort of buzz under his skin. It's too quiet, no pages turning, no spoon against china, no rustle of fabric. It's the first he's been alone in the flat since--

He sits up. Manually folding the blankets occupies a good three or four minutes, a fairly painful shower and a change of clothes another ten. He quickly learns that he doesn't have the stamina just now for sustained nervous pacing, so he takes it out on the plants for a bit before stalking into the kitchen.

"That's what I should do," he says, "cook for Aziraphale." He's cooked before, though the date and occasion escape him. "That's the kind of heartfelt gesture that people do for their… people… they care about."

He starts opening cabinets, finding only slightly dusty pans and a few raw ingredients of dubious age. He glowers, both at the lack of food and at the inadequacy of spoken language to articulate what he and Aziraphale are to one another. A dish miracled from nothingness would mean even less than the word _boyfriend_.

So Crowley pouts on the window seat and flips through _Persuasion_ without really registering the words until he hears the door open.

He jumps to his feet, winces, holds his breath. The last time he heard that door open, the angel who came through wasn't _his_ angel, and he can't summon the courage to call out Aziraphale's name.

Instead, he listens to footsteps, first to the sofa, then checking a couple other rooms, muffled on the soft carpet of the bedroom and a bit louder on the tile of the bathroom floor. They _sound_ like Aziraphale's steps; Crowley should know, he's been following them for six-thousand years.

"Aziraphale?" he murmurs, more quietly than he intends, and then there's Aziraphale stepping around the corner toward the alcove, smile beaming and shopping bags still in hand.

"Crowley," he says, so much warmth and affection in his voice, his shoulders dropping in relief at seeing Crowley again, as if it hadn't been just a few hours ago that he'd left. "I hope the letter was sufficient, I didn't want to wake you. Honestly, I quite expected you to still be asleep when I returned." Crowley still doesn't answer, and Aziraphale blinks once or twice, then asks, "My dear, are you unwell?"

"I'm fine," Crowley says, his tone betraying him.

"Oh," Aziraphale says. "Dear, should I not have gone without waking you? You were resting so soundly, you looked to be at peace, it's so rare a sight that--" Aziraphale is blushing, Crowley realizes with the tiny sliver of his brain not still soaked in adrenaline "--well, I simply took a photograph and then ran errands."

"No, it's fine that you went, you don't _have_ to stay here. A photograph?"

"Yes. On my telephone, the way Anathema showed me. I hope I did it correctly, come to think of it."

"I was just relieved."

"That I took the photograph?"

"That it was you who came through the door."

"Who else would it have been?" Aziraphale asks.

Crowley flinches and says, "I'm sure you took the photograph correctly."

"Oh. Oh, Crowley." Aziraphale's expression could only accurately be described as heartbroken fondness, or maybe fond heartbreak.

"It's fine," Crowley says quickly, "I'm fine. Just--" He huffs. "Fine. Can we start over? Hello, Aziraphale. How were your errands?"

Aziraphale forces a cheerfulness, _poorly_ , and says, "Oh, everything went well. Weather was a bit chilly, I suppose. Oh, that reminds me!"

"I want to take you on a date," Crowley blurts out, at the same time Aziraphale says, "I've brought you a present."

"A _present?_ " Crowley asks, "Like a gift?"

"As in a token of affection, though more for practicality than fun, I'm afraid. Now, did you say a _date?_ "

"Yes." Crowley sits on the seat and looks up at Aziraphale. "I wanted to _make_ you dinner, but there's not much here to cook and I don't actually know _how_ to cook, six millennia of bachelorhood and such, so I thought I'd take you somewhere nice."

Aziraphale sits beside him, bags by his feet, and takes Crowley's hand. He waits for Crowley to turn toward him, then Aziraphale leans forward and kisses him, a firm press of soft lips, parting after a moment to take Crowley's bottom lip carefully between his teeth and pull ever so gently.

It's a simple action that drives Crowley crazy in the best way, makes him want things he's never had but will, soon, could probably have _right now_ except that he manages _not_ to get distracted for once, rests his forehead against Aziraphale's and says, "A date. Dinner, drinks, dessert. Anywhere you want."

"Dear, you don't need to woo me." Aziraphale strokes his cheek. "I'm already yours."

Crowley hisses, grasps Aziraphale's hair and kisses him hard, before trying to speak. "Not _wooing_ , I'm-- I just want to be good to you." He shakes his head. "For you. Let me be _good_ for you."

Aziraphale kisses Crowley's forehead. "Then far be it from me to decline dinner offered by a gentleman."

"Not a one-of-those," Crowley mumbles, but at least he's getting his way. Aziraphale meets his eyes for a moment, a silent acknowledgment that maybe he chose a poor word but that he thinks Crowley is being too hard on himself -- all of this, conveyed in a few seconds of eye contact, but Crowley doesn't doubt his interpretation -- before reaching for one of the bags on the floor.

He holds it out toward Crowley and says, "I think perhaps you should open this before we head out. Please don't feel obligated to wear it, but there's a nip in the air and I don't want you to feel cold."

Crowley doesn't tell him that he's pretty much always cold. He's had six-thousand years to adjust to being kept from the light, but still his bones ache; it's only gotten worse, since.

He reaches past tissue paper and pulls out a length of black fabric. It's soft beneath his hands, softer even than Aziraphale's sweaters, and he realizes that's what it is: a sweater, solid black with an unremarkable cut.

"I know it's a bit plain," Aziraphale says, "and it's not your usual style, but I saw it and I wanted you to have it, for your, well, your back."

Crowley swallows and blinks, grateful for the glasses hiding the hurt undoubtedly showing in his eyes. He forces his voice to stay steady when he says, "Not sure it's thick enough material to hide the knots, angel."

"To hide?" Aziraphale repeats, then shakes his head. "I meant only that the scars look tender, and your shirts, while quite flattering, aren't made from the softest fabric." He touches the earpiece of Crowley's glasses and adds, "I've never encouraged you to hide anything about your form, not from the humans and certainly not from me."

"They're noticeable."

"Less than you think."

"They're _ugly_. No wonder you want me to cover up."

"That's enough." Aziraphale gives him a sharp look. "Really, now," he says, his face softening with his tone. "I have only two reasons that I was glad to see you, as you say, 'cover up': one, that it meant you were healed enough to be able to dress more to your custom; and two, because I _was_ having a bit of trouble not staring, though not at your back." Aziraphale pauses and the color rises in his cheeks. When Crowley doesn't say anything, Aziraphale explains, "Your _body_ , dear, is quite distracting."

"It is?"

"Oh, yes. I'm particularly fond of the rise of your hip bones, I do think my thumbs would fit so nicely along those ridges, I can imagine it quite clearly, you know."

Crowley _didn't_ know, but now that he does the thought buzzes quite insistently inside his skull. "I should, uh. I. And you. My _hip bones?_ "

"They're lovely, dear."

"I should change. For dinner." He holds the sweater up. "If you still want to go."

"I would love to." Aziraphale doesn't excuse himself while Crowley switches shirts; in fact, he watches quite intently, though his hands are clasped together, prim and proper, on his lap. "Oh," he says conversationally, as if he isn't taking in every inch of Crowley's torso, "and I also purchased you some silk undershirts for when you do choose to wear your regular clothing, they breathe nearly as well as cotton but should be quite a bit gentler on your skin."

Crowley pauses with the sweater mostly on. "You've given this a lot of thought." He notices Aziraphale bite his lip, and he smooths the sweater down over his stomach. He's not used to being the object of desire; he's always considered himself too creative to resort to such lazy demonic methods.

"I think of you often, Crowley; I always have." Aziraphale smiles; it looks a bit sad. "I would do almost anything to ease your pain, and a bit of shopping was something quite easy to do."

"Angel," Crowley whispers. He reaches toward Aziraphale, intending to help him up; instead, Aziraphale kisses the back of his hand and stands on his own.

For a moment, Crowley considers canceling dinner in favor of curling up on the window seat, snuggled in his new sweater with a newly _his_ angel, comfortable, warm, maybe even safe. He knows that Aziraphale wouldn't mind, or at least would pretend not to, wouldn't protest much. But it wouldn't be fair, would it, and Crowley _cares_ about that now, being fair to Aziraphale.

"Fancy clothes call for a fancy venue!" he grandstands instead. "Give me a moment to find us a reservation." He lifts his hand to snap his fingers, but Aziraphale covers his hand with his own.

"Don't." He kisses Crowley's knuckles and adds, "Rest, my love; save your strength. Let's choose somewhere ordinary and just call ahead."

Crowley frowns. "I said I'd take you on a _date_ , though."

"Well, yes, you did, but a date is about the company and the intention, not the venue. We could share an order of fish and chips in a seedy pub and it would be a date so long as we agree that it is."

"I think I can do a bit better than _that_ ," Crowley sniffs.

Aziraphale just smiles, practically beams, besotted, and it doesn't fade as he waits for Crowley to pull on his boots and tuck his money clip inside his too-small pocket. His smile wavers just a bit as they pass through the foyer; Crowley squeezes his hand, unsure which of them he intends to comfort. It returns in full force, though, when they step out into the early evening and he watches Crowley set eyes on the Bentley for the first time in more than a month.

He had been scared to ask after it. After his performance in Tadfield, Heaven and Hell both knew how much he loved it, and they're all a bunch of spiteful bastards. He would have expected Gabriel to key it, at the very least. But no, it's _perfect_. He circles it twice to be sure before finally opening the passenger door for Aziraphale.

It's not until he's driven a few blocks that Crowley notices that the Bentley _has_ changed. It must have. Because he had slid into the driver's seat as usual, and it had fit his body as comfortably, _seamlessly_ , as it had for a century. His body has changed, though: visibly, irreparably. Yet, in this car, he doesn't feel the scars on his back where they should be pressing painfully against the seat.

Queen is even playing at a reasonable volume tonight; _rest your weary head and let your heart decide_ , the speakers sing to him. _What a good car you are_ , he thinks back. The engine purrs.

They end up at a little Italian restaurant, the kind of place with booths in addition to tables. Crowley takes one look and is halfway through apologizing -- "Angel, I can take you somewhere better than _this_ , this isn't your scene, just let me" -- when the hostess approaches them and Aziraphale shoots him a look to not be _rude_ in front of the young woman. Crowley bites his tongue, but he's grateful that they at least end up at a table.

The lights are dimmer on this side of the dining room, and the din of families is somewhat muffled. Crowley can _almost_ shake the feeling that he's already failed somehow. The whole evening is starting to feel like a job interview for which he is wildly unqualified.

But then Aziraphale reaches across the little table and squeezes Crowley's tapping fingers. "You're safe here," he says, "I ensured it as we walked through the door."

"That's not--" he starts to say, but their waiter arrives to introduce himself, and Crowley shifts his attention to the restaurant's meager wine list. He doesn't recognize any of them as particularly impressive, so he points to the most expensive and says, "And two glasses."

"Of course, sir," the boy says. He glances between them and asks, "Are we celebrating a special occasion this evening, gentlemen?"

"Not really," Crowley says just as Aziraphale says, "Oh, yes."

Once the waiter is gone, Crowley says, "Of course it's special."

"I understand." Aziraphale smiles softly. "It's hardly easy to articulate to a stranger, a human one no less, that we've known each other nearly forever and yet this is our first true date." They're still holding hands. Aziraphale hasn't even picked up his menu yet.

 _It's love_ , Crowley thinks stupidly.

He lets Aziraphale order for him while he pours them each a glass of wine, downs his own, and pours another. It's helping, a little; he's been on the knife's edge of panic more than not since he woke.

"'Safe'?" he says aloud.

"Hmm?" Aziraphale blinks at him.

"You said you made it safe when we walked in, what does that mean? Something the witch taught you?"

"Yes and no. _Miss Device_ was quite helpful, of course, but Adam played a part as well. It's something they made together, his will and her means." Aziraphale smooths his napkin across his lap; this show of etiquette looks quite absurd, given that tinny speakers are playing Top 40 pop music and the napkin is _paper_. "They traveled to visit the flat during the early days of your recovery."

Crowley frowns and goes back to tapping at the table. "I don't remember that."

"I don't expect you would, dear. You were quite unwell."

"Did I see them? Did I _talk_ to them?"

Aziraphale takes a drink of his wine. "Not terrible," he says, which had been Crowley's assessment as well. "You saw them, briefly. You said little other than telling them to leave."

It's not really a question when Crowley says, "You called them to try to heal me, didn't you. Security was an afterthought."

"I don't think 'afterthought' is fair, though the former was certainly the primary reason I asked them to come, yes."

"But they couldn't."

"They tried," Aziraphale says softly. "I was hoping one of them could succeed where I had failed, but no such luck. Anathema _was_ able to provide a salve for dressing your wounds, and some teas to help manage your pain. I suspect they may have been more straight herbalism than her magick, but I don't know enough of either to say for certain."

"I need to know how the protection works," Crowley says. "I need to know because, because what if you're not around, what if you leave or, or, or. What if." He takes a shuddering breath and asks the question he's been asking himself since he was still on that floor, watching Gabriel's shiny shoes as they stepped back from the spreading pool of blood. _What if--?_ "What if they come for you, too?"

"I think." Aziraphale twists his napkin in his lap; the cheap paper rips under his fingers, and he crumples it miserably. "I think this was them coming for me." And he would know, wouldn't he, their pettiness, their vindictiveness. _Please do tell Aziraphale that I said hello._

"Oh," is all Crowley can say.

Aziraphale stares at Crowley's hand, which is no longer tapping but, rather, gripping the edge of the table. When did that happen, Crowley wonders. Aziraphale looks utterly miserable and maybe a little afraid when he asks, "Do you hate me?"

Crowley forces his body to chuckle dismissively. "I _love_ you, Aziraphale. Said it a few times now."

"And I you," Aziraphale says immediately, as if by reflex, though he also sounds a bit irritated by the diversion. "However, what I asked you was--"

"I don't hate you, angel." Crowley's voice is soft. They've been over this exact point already; none of this is Aziraphale's _fault_. Does he have to say it? "Just because it was agents of Heaven that did this, that's not your fault, wouldn't be your fault even if you hadn't broken ranks already."

"They did it _because_ of me, though; they hurt you to hurt me."

"Pretty sure they were pissed at me in my own right, too," Crowley jokes, because otherwise he's going to launch into an impassioned speech about how he's _glad_ it was him, that he'd rather live that night endlessly than know it had been done to Aziraphale even once, that if the terror and pain and disfigurement are the cost of Aziraphale being untouched and whole, then he's grateful for the target Aziraphale's affections painted on his back. Crowley feels this deeply, in whatever passes for his soul; it makes perfect sense, then, that all of this was _Aziraphale's_ punishment.

Aziraphale looks like he wants to protest, but the waiter is approaching their table with their food and a genuine smile, so he doesn't say anything.

Crowley reaches across the table to squeeze Aziraphale's hand. "I'm glad it was me," he says quickly, sneaking in the last word before turning brightly toward the waiter and saying, "Oh, this looks wonderful!"

The waiter seems a little surprised as he sits the plates on the table. "I'm sorry, sir, was I interrupting?"

"We have the rest of our lives to talk to each other," Crowley says easily, "and Ezra here has been feeling peckish since before we left the house."

" _Anthony_ \--" Aziraphale says with a note of warning in his tone.

But the waiter just chuckles and says to Aziraphale, "It's okay, my boyfriend likes to embarrass me, too. It bothered me at first, the teasing, but eventually I realized that it's just how he dotes on me. So this? This doesn't faze me." He's trying to _comfort Aziraphale_ , Crowley realizes with genuine amusement. What a good kid. Crowley's going to leave a tip big enough to make sure that he gets to be the one doting on his partner for a while.

"Thank you," Aziraphale manages. Once the waiter walks away, Crowley laughs, sincerely, and Aziraphale shakes his head. "All I wanted to say is that of course I'll teach you the wards, though it may be better to visit the others and let them explain it, just to be sure."

"Sounds like I owe Anathema a thank you," Crowley says, which is his way of agreeing. He cuts a corner off of one of the ravioli on his plate to check the flavor, then takes another piece and holds his fork out to Aziraphale, who takes the food from the utensil delicately. He looks Crowley right in the eye as he chases a bit of sauce with his tongue. "Wicked," Crowley chastises gently, and Aziraphale laughs with self-satisfied glee before focusing on his food.

Crowley doesn't eat much -- he'd asked Aziraphale to order for him in part because he knew that Aziraphale would eat the bulk of both meals -- but he enjoys the wine, and he enjoys watching Aziraphale. The heavy conversation doesn't seem to have ruined the evening, and Crowley allows himself to relax, at least physically, draping his body across the table and pouring another glass.

He watches Aziraphale eat. It's hardly the first time -- when _was_ the first time? The oysters were the first time Crowley had partaken, but not the first time he'd _watched_ \-- but it's the first time Crowley has watched his mouth while knowing very well what it feels like against his own. There's little to say, as they've been together day and night for weeks now, so Aziraphale eats and debates at length which novel they should read next, and Crowley sips his wine, watches, listens.

The waiter comes to offer dessert, and Aziraphale's eyes light up. It's kind of adorable, Crowley thinks, then blames the thought and his own burning cheeks on the wine. Aziraphale reaches across the table and squeezes Crowley's hand for the fourth or fifth time this evening and says, hopefully, "Are you well enough to stay out a bit longer?" 

Aziraphale might be an infinite being unburdened by all human definitions, but he's also a man happy to indulge in earthly pleasures, and his thumb stroking along Crowley's knuckles is as good a reminder of that as the plates waiting to be cleared away. Crowley thinks suddenly about Epicurus, and how he remembers him fondly even though he had been wrong about so much; if only the absence of pain and fear were even achievable, or if eliminating the dread of death were a mercy and not a sentence; but he'd been right about a simple life and little joys, so Crowley says, "Of course, angel, order whatever you like."

The waiter smiles at the term of endearment, and Crowley hopes the boy doesn't spend the rest of his short life working too hard for too little in this city that sets Crowley's teeth on edge some days.

Crowley finishes off the bottle of wine while Aziraphale eats his dessert. Left with nothing to do with his mouth, he says, just to gently antagonize, "We should read Shelley or Poe next, or perhaps Lovecraft."

Aziraphale purses his lips. "I met Howard once. It would have been during your long rest, I suppose, and I had an assignment overseas. Very odd fellow, quite off-putting. Haven't read his work as a result, but I'll give it a try if you'd like."

Of course he would; Aziraphale _loves_ him. Crowley grins dopily. "I was kidding."

"Oh, good," Aziraphale says, attention returning to dessert. He'd selected two, actually: the first, a cheesecake topped with kiwi, mango, and some sort of red glaze, and Crowley doesn't much care for the cheesecake, the tart with the sweet, and he waves away Aziraphale's offer of a second bite; the second, though, a tiramisu, the owner's wife's specialty, according to the waiter, oh, it melts in his mouth, and he might not be much for food as a rule but this, this he loves.

He must give himself away somehow, because Aziraphale smiles softly and slides the plate toward Crowley. "No," Crowley declines, "I want you to have it."

Aziraphale pulls the plate back toward himself and uses his fork to delicately carve out a perfect bite, every layer present and proportioned, and Crowley feels such a rush of affection for this ridiculous being.

And then Aziraphale reaches across the table, holds the fork almost to Crowley's lips. He parts them obediently, leans forward, and is struck with a sudden spark of inspiration. He tries to be seductive, letting his tongue reach toward the treat, mimicking Aziraphale's earlier show with the cream sauce and drawing from every film he can remember.

His confidence falters about the time his tooth clicks against the tines of the fork. That little sound makes him realize he probably looked stupid, comical at best, and he's trying to think of a joke even as heat floods his cheeks.

But something in Aziraphale's eyes suggest that Crowley's little attempt was more than effective, that either he didn't look stupid or the trying was enough, because Aziraphale is staring at his mouth, watching as Crowley chases the last of the flavor from his bottom lip.

Aziraphale nods his head, coming back to himself, but his voice sounds a little husky when he says, "Perhaps we should ask for the check."

Crowley can't help feeling satisfied, but he tries to hide it so that he can innocently ask, "Are you sure you don't want to order coffee, or maybe another dessert?"

Aziraphale's gaze is a little unfocused; his eyes are on Crowley, but they're roaming a bit, looking at his mouth, his eyes, his hands, and lingering on the exposed flesh around Crowley's throat, at what Crowley imagines is the stark contrast between his fair skin and the black cashmere. "I'm quite sure."

Only one dessert is on the check when it arrives, and the boy responds to Crowley's raised eyebrow with a look that confirms it was intentional. He pays the bill and tips generously, in cash, and he huffs when Aziraphale smiles at him. "What?"

Aziraphale says, "That was very kind of you."

Crowley turns away from him and says, "Wasn't _kind_. I used cash. Very devious, that, tempting him to keep it all for himself instead of tipping out the hostess and the bar and then to not even claim it on his taxes, you know, _not_ rendering unto Caesar and such."

Aziraphale chuckles and takes his hand. "Well, I think it was kind, nonetheless."

It's dark when they step outside, and a bit too cool to be comfortable now that the sun has set. Crowley holds tightly to Aziraphale's hand so that they don't get separated along the busy sidewalk, and they hurry together toward the car. Crowley gets there first, by a step, and he reaches to open the door for Aziraphale. It sticks for a moment, and Crowley frowns until his wine-soaked brain catches up and realizes that the door isn't _stuck:_ Aziraphale is holding it closed.

In fact, Aziraphale has two hands on the Bentley, one on either side of Crowley, probably leaving palm prints on the paint but Crowley barely notices because Aziraphale's body is leaving Crowley just enough space to turn to properly face him. "Angel?"

Then Aziraphale's mouth is on his, and there's _no_ space left between them. Aziraphale tastes like the mascarpone and cocoa powder from his dessert, sweet and rich with just a hint of bitter espresso when he presses his tongue forward, the most perfect taste that has ever crossed Crowley's lips. His gasp turns into a moan, and he knows he should hate how _easy_ he is but he doesn't, he can't, knowing how hard it was for all the years he'd waited.

Crowley raises a hand to Aziraphale's jaw, tips their mouths apart, and says, "Take me home now, Aziraphale, please."

It's a dumb thing to say, or a dumb way to say it, Crowley realizes, since he's the one who'll be doing the driving, but if Aziraphale notices then he doesn't say anything, just nods seriously while staring at Crowley's mouth before clearing his throat and finally taking a step back, allowing Crowley to open the door.

They hold hands in the car, which fortunately can compensate for Crowley's blood alcohol level and divided attention, and the tension between them is the good kind. They're a few blocks from the flat when Aziraphale lets go of Crowley's hand so that he can lay his palm on Crowley's thigh, and Crowley feels a rush of heat flood his body. He's sobering up quickly, albeit unintentionally, so he can't even blame the wine. It's just _want_.

The moment they're inside, Aziraphale presses Crowley against the door and kisses him again, one hand behind Crowley's neck to hold his injury away from the hard surface. There's _intent_ to the kiss: nothing new in the press of Aziraphale's lips, the curl of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth, but a difference nonetheless; intent in the press of Aziraphale's thigh between Crowley's legs, warm and soft yet unyielding; Crowley knows where this is heading, all but asked for it when Aziraphale kissed him beside the Bentley. Crowley wants this, too, of course, but _Aziraphale's_ desire crackles in the air so strongly that it's almost a physical force in its own right, leaving Crowley pinned in place, open, vulnerable.

He's been vulnerable in this room, pinned down, before. Gabriel didn't even get his hands dirty, let the lesser angels do the cutting, stood over Crowley with his wings out, crackling with his own kind of desire. _Tell Aziraphale I said hello_ , he had said, and so much worse, his hate and cruelty thick in the words, his voice, the very air, mingling with Crowley's terror and pain into a noxious, albeit metaphysical, cloud.

Crowley can still _taste_ it, if he concentrates. Can _smell_ it, along with the sharp metal of his blood, permanently staining the floor where he'd struggled but ultimately succumbed. Can _feel_ those angels' hands on him, and the unbearable, burning, tearing pain of their holy blades severing his wings.

But that was _then_ , he chastises himself, trying to focus his attention on Aziraphale. _Now_ it's just one angel touching him, the right one, and if he's being a bit forceful then at least it's for the right reasons, right? Crowley remembers, finally, to raise his hands to touch Aziraphale as well, steadies their shaking by gripping Aziraphale's shoulders, warm and solid; remembers, finally, to kiss back, if only to keep himself from screaming.

Aziraphale takes this as encouragement, enthusiasm, and his free hand presses under Crowley's sweater, over his stomach, one finger dipping suggestively below his waistband. Crowley remembers, suddenly, that he's been turned on since before dinner, that he wanted Aziraphale to bring him back here and do exactly this. His swirling thoughts and Aziraphale's touch are maddening, and Crowley whimpers.

"Hmm?" Aziraphale hums, but he doesn't pause long enough for Crowley to answer, slides his hand farther up Crowley's stomach, over his chest. The chill air of the entryway hits Crowley's exposed skin, and he shivers, maybe from the cold or maybe from anticipation, arousal. All Crowley can do is wind his arms around Aziraphale and hang on, breathe, feel himself give in. Aziraphale is so much more experienced than him, after all, and stronger, smarter, better.

In this moment, Crowley thinks, he may as well be powerless.

He ducks his head away, and before Aziraphale can ask why, Crowley says, "Bedroom," and pushes on Aziraphale's shoulder to turn him around.

Aziraphale doesn't argue, doesn't even glance back over his shoulder, just grasps Crowley's wrist without looking. Crowley's foot catches on the edge of the edge of the rug as Aziraphale pulls him along to the bedroom.

It's easier, in this room. A little bit. The smell of blood is less here, fresh sheets since the worst of his recovery, and Aziraphale smells great, even more like cocoa powder than usual. Easier to kiss back, easier to give in, easier to let Aziraphale's hands wander lower, lower.

Until they grasp the hem of Crowley's sweater, until they start to tug it upward. Crowley reaches down, fingers leaving Aziraphale's feather-soft curls, to still Aziraphale's hands.

And it's the first time, he thinks in quite a while, that Aziraphale has actually taken a proper breath, and it's to ask, "Is this too soon?"

"No," Crowley whispers, and he thinks it might even be the truth. It's not _too soon_ , he just wants to leave his damned shirt on, but now Aziraphale is looking at him like he's something fragile instead of something precious, and the only way Crowley can think to keep the momentum tripping forward is to nudge Aziraphale's fingers lower, press them against the button of his jeans.

He pants against Aziraphale's lips, eyes closed tightly, until Aziraphale thumbs the button open. The zipper, metal teeth grinding, is loud with no competing sound save Crowley's shallow breaths. The slide of the denim against Crowley's skin is a bit quieter, and then Crowley is leaning on Aziraphale for support as he toes off his shoes and shimmies out of the snug fabric, clinging to his neck as Aziraphale lifts him by his thin, trembling thighs, fingers hot where skin meets skin, and carries him to the bed.

It's easy, then, to lie against the pillows while Aziraphale, still fully clothed, curls at his side. While Aziraphale bites a bruise at the spot where the black cashmere gives way to Crowley's throat, while Aziraphale slides his hand down his side, over his stomach, between his thighs. While he slides his fingertips between that swollen flesh and draws the wetness there up, up, strokes a slick finger on either side of Crowley's aching clit.

It feels especially good because he hasn't touched himself in months, and he's had more reason to over the past few weeks than in the millenia he lived inside a corporeal body up to that point. He's had a mouth pressed hot against his own, has sat astride a pair of hips somehow soft and solid at once, has rocked against a hard cock and felt his body answer that need with his own.

"Crowley, my love," Aziraphale says against his throat, trails along the sharp line of his jaw while his fingers explore Crowley's folds. "I've lain with men with lovely vulvae before, and I've experimented with one of my own, of course."

"Oh," Crowley breathes, either a question or a moan, he isn't sure himself, isn't sure of anything.

"Yes," Aziraphale answers or agrees. "And I must confess that it's not my preference for _myself_ but, oh darling, I already so love yours." He brushes his fingers over Crowley's curls, and Crowley whimpers at the loss of contact with the parts of him pulsing with need. Aziraphale chuckles, the sound low and awfully devious for an angel.

It's everything Crowley wanted, Aziraphale's mouth on his throat, whispering more words near Crowley's ear that he isn't quite catching, and Crowley's hips rise from the bed, seeking that touch against the head of his clit, hard like the line of Aziraphale's erection pressed against Crowley's side. Aziraphale slides his hand lower once more, just shy of pushing Crowley down into the mattress; dips his fingertips against Crowley's weeping core, so close to pushing inside; for good measure, hooks a leg over Crowley's own to keep him still, to hold him open.

Crowley gasps, then he says, "Please, Aziraphale." And is he saying _please keep going_ or _please stop_ ; he doesn't know which kind of mercy he's begging for, not until Aziraphale holding him so sweetly starts to feel like Aziraphale holding him still, holding him _down_ , and-- "Stop," he pleads, voice breaking, "please stop."

Aziraphale does, immediately, removes his hand from between Crowley's legs and brings it to his own chest. He doesn't move away, though, and Crowley is grateful for that because all he wants is to press his face against Aziraphale's sweater. He takes a shuddering breath, and he can smell himself on Aziraphale's fingers, knows that if he opened his eyes he would see them glisten in the lamplight.

"I'm sorry," they both say at the same time, then Aziraphale repeats, firmly, " _I'm_ sorry. Are you hurt, my darling?"

"Too much," Crowley says, "it was good, you're so good, it's not you, Aziraphale, I just, I can't, it's too much, and too much like--"

Aziraphale strokes his hair, with the same hand that had just been stroking elsewhere, and says, softly, "I hadn't realized that they--"

"They didn't," Crowley says quickly. They hadn't. He doesn't add that Gabriel had knelt down beside him when the job was halfway done and declared that he could, you know, he _could_ , Crowley had made it so _easy_ for them, only he would never tarnish his vessel with Crowley's filth; and declared that Crowley should be grateful for that, should be grateful that this wasn't worse than it was, be grateful that he could still offer Aziraphale his _purity_ ; then Gabriel had laughed at his own joke, hateful and cruel, so very, terribly cruel, crueler than anyone in Hell had been to Crowley in centuries.

_Tell Aziraphale I said hello._

Aziraphale's touch is feather-light, calming, and he asks softly, "Would you like for me to leave, leave the bed or leave the room, or may I stay with you? Just like this, nothing more, I promise."

"Stay," Crowley says, then adds, because Aziraphale seems so unsure of him and of himself, "I want you to stay."

He's wearing his underwear again, Aziraphale's miracle unless he had done it himself without thought, and he must be leaving a damp spot on the silky fabric, he's so wet, desire overflowing. He wants Aziraphale's fingers crooked inside him, and it's unfair that something else inside of him is beating back against that want, overpowering it. The injustice washes over him all at once, knocks the air from his chest in a single deafening sob: the injustice of endless punishments, one after another, out of proportion to his transgressions; the injustice of love denied.

The panic that had been building in his chest since he first woke today crests and breaks, and he's making a strangled sound in his throat as the tears well in his eyes. "'m sorry," he somehow gasps, "sorry, angel, stay, I'm sorry."

"I'm right here, love," Aziraphale murmurs. He presses his lips to Crowley's hairline, a light, chaste touch. The tenderness breaks whatever boards had remained in Crowley's crumbling dam, and he buries his face in Aziraphale's chest. "May I put an arm around you?" Crowley can't answer but he nods, just barely, and feels himself pulled into a loose but warm embrace.

He doesn't cry as hard or as long as he expects to; perhaps he's cried enough in the past few weeks to run out of tears entirely, or perhaps Aziraphale's steady breathing and gentle touch are enough to calm him. It's not long at all before he squirms a bit, lifts his head to look at Aziraphale, who gazes back with such open love that Crowley feels tears prickle again. Aziraphale just smiles softly and runs his thumb along Crowley's cheekbone, up around his eye.

"That lovely gold," he says quietly.

"Oh," Crowley whispers. He can't tell when his irises overtake his eyes, but if they have once again, it's probably fear this time as much as anything. When he speaks, when he asks, "What if I can't?" he sounds so small, so scared, and he resents it.

Aziraphale weighs his words long enough for dread to start to settle in Crowley's stomach, but he also strokes his shoulder so very gently while he thinks. "It would be hell to go back to not being allowed to touch you, having had the pleasure," Aziraphale says finally.

It would be hell for Crowley, too, and he knows what that really means. He doesn't say it, just mumbles, "Right."

"I enjoy this," Aziraphale continues, "I enjoy lying next to you, holding your hand, caressing you. I enjoy watching over you while you rest. I enjoy embracing, I enjoy kissing. And of course I would like to do more, would like to give your body pleasure and express my adoration, my admiration, for you. I would like to lie with you, make love to you. But if I can't, if what we've done prior to this evening is as far as it goes, then that's perfectly alright, dear."

Crowley blinks, manages merely a series of stuttering consonants before finally saying, "You mean that."

"I do. And if you want to do less, we'll do less. We don't need to kiss or touch at all."

"I want to," Crowley says, and kisses him gently to prove it to them both. Aziraphale smiles when they part, and Crowley smiles for a moment too before ducking his head in embarrassment and rolling onto his other side. He adjusts until he's mostly comfortable, then tugs Aziraphale's arm around him again, presses his back to Aziraphale's chest and raises Aziraphale's hand to his mouth for a brief kiss. "I do think it will happen," he assures Aziraphale, assures them both. "I just don't know when. Maybe I'm like an orchid, _and I won't bloom until I'm good and ready and all the planets align, **apparently**_." This last part is said entirely too loudly and in the direction of the plant room. He's tired of caring for what currently amount to nothing but green sticks. You can't make boutonnieres out of green sticks. At least not good ones.

Aziraphale's laugh ruffles Crowley's hair. "There's no hurry, dear, we have eternity. You waited so patiently for me for so long, and I'm prepared to do the same."

Crowley frowns. "I don't always know what to say when you're kind. Unaccustomed, in general. But just because I don't say it, that doesn't mean--" He frowns harder, as if that's any kind of communication at all when Aziraphale can't even see his face.

But perhaps it's sufficient, because Aziraphale says, "I know that. I know you do. I was sure of your feelings even before I was sure of my own."

"That's embarrassing," Crowley mutters.

Aziraphale laughs again, a gentle thing that Crowley feels more than hears, then adds, "I love you so."

Crowley nods; in lieu of words, he gestures sort of helplessly in the space above their bodies. He feels his essence brush against one both familiar and not, and he gasps.

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale says immediately. His body doesn't move but his essence does, and Crowley's fingers close around nothing, leaving him feeling immediately bereft.

"No, angel, let me feel them."

"Are you sure? I don't want to do anything more to upset you tonight."

"I'm sure, yes, I'm sure, _please_."

Crowley used to sleep with his wings out, wrapped around himself for protection, warmth, comfort. He's always cold now when he sleeps, even with Aziraphale in the bed. It's not the same.

But this, this almost familiar weight that settles over him now, heavier than a quilt, warmer than the sun… Aziraphale's wing has sheltered him before, but never so intimately as it drapes over him now. The other must be lying smooth along Aziraphale's back; he can feel the way the mattress dips, but this one ensconces them both.

Aziraphale has been so wrapped up in Crowley's physical recovery and healing that he likely hasn't thought about the daily impact, probably uses his own wings only rarely -- there simply isn't cause, and, well, he expects they'll always be there. But Crowley loved his own, had taken comfort and more than a little pride in them, though he wouldn't admit to either now.

"Can I?" Crowley begins, but he's not the best at boundaries tonight, his long fingers already stroking along Aziraphale's feathers. They almost seem to glow, pure white reflecting what little light still filters through the windows.

"You know," Crowley says, and every word is an effort, "when you said that if you had just gone with me when I asked, then they may have left us alone?"

"And you'd still have your wings."

"Yes. But if you had, angel, if we'd left together, then there'd be no marscapone or good-hearted waiters or cool fall evenings, there'd be _nothing_ , Aziraphale, if the trade was my wings for all of humanity, then..."

Aziraphale presses his mouth to where Crowley's wings could have still been and whispers, "Do you really mean that, love?"

"Of course I mean it," Crowley says, no bite in his tone despite the words, "I was a bloody angel once, too, I remember what it is to love them."

As time goes by, Crowley's strokes slow until his hands simply rest against Aziraphale's wing. And if Crowley is trembling, well, so is Aziraphale. Neither one unaffected.

.

Crowley wakes up with an idea, a plan, a perfect solution that makes perfect sense. So it's a bit frustrating that, upon hearing his plan, Aziraphale is clearly not on board. Again.

"You want to move to a cottage," Aziraphale repeats.

"Not just any cottage, angel, a cottage _by the sea_." Crowley is pacing the floor in front of the window seat, has been for a while, glasses on so Aziraphale can't see how foolish he's feeling at yet another rejection. Sure, he's blustery, a little manic, but-- "Got the idea from your books, angel, all those stories, the swooning ladies convalescing by the ocean, sea air aiding in recovery and all that."

Aziraphale sits his tea on the floor by his foot and says, "Come have a seat, dear." He's holding his hand out, and Crowley has to fight conflicting urges to take it and sink down at Aziraphale's side, and to bat it away.

He does neither, just sort of stops and stares at it. "So you don't want to come with me, got it."

"I didn't say that." Aziraphale drops his hand to pat the cushion, and Crowley reluctantly sits.

"Then what are you saying?" Crowley pushes.

"A cottage by the sea doesn't exactly seem 'your speed,' as they say," Aziraphale says doubtfully.

"You may have noticed, my speed has slowed considerably of late."

"Hmm." Aziraphale smooths his hand along the cushion and glances out the window. "I've become quite accustomed to your flat, _you_ may have noticed." Crowley looks over the upholstery, the new china, the way that even in the middle of a tense morning Aziraphale has clearly made himself at home. He's noticed.

"I know," Crowley says, because he's trying, he _really_ is, Aziraphale is allowed to have feelings about this, but, "but you can't always be here," and Crowley doesn't want to be here anymore. This isn't home anymore, and the bookshop can't really be home either, even if Aziraphale did invite him there, it's too public and, more than that, it's a place Crowley wasn't always welcome, and that would get under his skin eventually. He wants someplace new, someplace _theirs_. Someplace safe.

"The wards," Aziraphale starts to say, almost as if he knows what Crowley is thinking, but Crowley shakes his head, a bit more forcefully than he probably should.

"I'm not, I'm not trying to leave you. I'm saying that you can come with, you know." Crowley bites back a growl in his throat. "I'm _asking_ you to."

"That's hardly what I was suggesting," Aziraphale protests, but his shoulders have dropped at least half an inch and he just _feels_ lighter. Crowley wants to shake him; had he honestly been thinking Crowley was giving up on them after one setback? "Though it does sound like a nice change of pace, perhaps," Aziraphale allows. "My neighborhood has gotten so busy of late." Crowley won't argue with whatever justification Aziraphale wants to make. 

Except that he _should_ , and he hates this, wanting to be good for Aziraphale, it's an awful lot of work. So instead of just pressing his advantage, he makes himself ask the important question.

"What do _you_ want, angel?"

Aziraphale barely hesitates when he answers, "I want you to be happy."

"Not sure I'm wired for happy," Crowley says. Even with his glasses, it's obvious that he's staring at a point over Aziraphale's shoulder, not actually at Aziraphale. "Never have been. Happy angels didn't fall, you know that. The happy angels were like happy humans. They let things be."

"I need for you to be happy," Aziraphale says, and now he's the one who won't look at Crowley. It frees Crowley up to stare at the miserable twist of Aziraphale's lips as he talks. "I feel -- No, I _am_ responsible for your happiness." Crowley scoffs, but Aziraphale continues, "When I said that I would do almost anything to ease your pain, you didn't wonder what that meant. The 'almost'?"

Crowley considers. "That you have scruples, morals, all that inherent right and wrong business, lines you wouldn't cross for anyone, me included."

Aziraphale shakes his head. "No. Well, I mean, yes, I have those as well, though those lines are rather muddled and have been for a while, haven't they?" He smiles and shakes his head, just this side of rueful. "Now that it's the two of us against Hell and Heaven alike, I'm not sure I have lines other than the one connecting us."

It almost floors Crowley, hearing Aziraphale _say_ that he's against Heaven, so factually, as if it weren't still a pretty new idea for him. The once-obedient soldier who not only deserted on the eve of battle, but committed treason and then renounced his citizenship, declaring them their own private nation. It's dizzying.

"Do you regret that?" Crowley has to ask.

"Not for a moment, my beloved," Aziraphale replies. His smile is soft but not sad, and Crowley aches to kiss him.

Before he can, Aziraphale laughs nervously and says, "I don't think you remember the reason why I feel responsible. One of the first nights, after, you were awake just long enough to beg me to kill you, to 'pop down to the cathedral on Francis Street and bring back some holy water to end this,' and I refused. You asked me for a simple act of mercy that I was completely within my power to perform, and I refused you."

Crowley definitely doesn't remember that, and it makes sense but it doesn't _feel_ true, does it? "See," he manages, "like I said, scruples."

"No. No, Crowley, love, please listen to me. I've seen war, more even than you have, I've walked bloody battlefields and listened to dying boys crying for their mothers they'd never see again, crying for our Mother, too, pleas that would go similarly unheard. More times than I can count. The only feeling worse in the air than hopelessness is that sliver of hope that shouldn't be. It tastes like fruit gone rotten, something once pleasant that no longer belongs."

"Yellow tulips," Crowley murmurs, though he knows it's a different kind of hopeless.

Aziraphale glances up, either at the sound of his voice or its words, then he continues. "There were times when I was too exhausted, too drained for even one more minor miracle; other times when I was bound to inaction by red tape. And so many boys I couldn't save, couldn't _heal_ , and I... I killed them myself, these two all-but-human hands over their nose and mouth, until their already weak, shallow breaths stopped."

Crowley reaches for him. "Aziraphale."

Aziraphale allows Crowley to take his hand, but he doesn't seem to take any comfort from the touch, regarding their joined fingers with a grimace before continuing. " _That_ had been the right thing to do, Crowley, the moral thing. I could be merciful in those moments, but I couldn't be when you needed me, couldn't extend that same righteous choice to my dearest one. My 'almost' lies in the space between selfless, wise, heavenly love and selfish, desperate, earthly love. I was weak and chose the latter."

Crowley isn't trying to pick a fight, he's really not, but he's confused and impatient so he sounds a little short when he asks, "So killing me would have been _righteous?_ "

Aziraphale squares his shoulders, defensive. "In that moment, yes."

"And that's why you think you're responsible for me, or my happiness, or whatever you said?" Aziraphale only nods, and Crowley asks, desperate himself now, "Please tell me that everything since hasn't been because you feel obligated to me."

"Heavens no!" Crowley snorts, and it makes Aziraphale laugh softly himself. "Of course not," he tries again. "No, I'm here because I want to be, I want to be with you, I suspect I could endure most anything with you by my side. But that's all selfish wants, too, my dear. I want so much where you're concerned, Crowley, that I sometimes forget that there are two of us here. What you're offering sounds lovely, for me, but you've always seemed to enjoy the city."

Crowley frowns. "Hell stationed me amidst the chaos. I've never known anything else."

"Oh," Aziraphale breathes. "I didn't realize."

"Neither did I," Crowley says, his forehead still creased with the revelation. "It's been mostly cities for as long as cities have existed."

"A cottage by the sea might be a nice change of pace," Aziraphale says cautiously, "and we could always leave if you're not happy."

"I'd like to try." Crowley sighs. "But… Instead of all this 'happy' business, can we settle on 'content'?" When he says _content_ , what he means is _safe, and warm, and not alone_. It seems much more attainable.

"Yes." Aziraphale squeezes his hand, and their fingers finally seem to be fitting together properly. "Yes, I can agree to that, for a start."

They're looking at real estate listings within the hour, huddled together over Crowley's phone, and Crowley turns his head to the side and brushes his lips against Aziraphale's temple. "Angel, do you want to talk about what you told me this morning?"

"Not just now, dearest." Aziraphale leans a little into his side and says, "This one has a sunroom!"

"Any of them could have a sunroom," Crowley says. "Any of them can have anything we want."

"Well, yes," Aziraphale agrees, "but it's so much nicer when it's been there a while, isn't it? With real wood from real trees, and real glass from real sand?"

Crowley pulls the cuffs of his sweater down over his wrists and wonders whether he would know the difference if this weren't real cashmere from real goats. He doesn't think he could tell, but he knows Aziraphale would. It's an angel thing, maybe, to be so tapped into creation's essence. "I suppose," he allows.

"You could take your little naps out there!" Aziraphale says. "Warm and cozy with the sun on your skin."

They look at probably two-hundred listings over the next few days, before paying cash for the cottage with the sunroom.

.

Crowley doesn't have much to pack, and a quick miracle or two will suffice to move the window seat and bathtub to their new home. When moving day comes, he'll lay down a tarp in the back of the Bentley and drive the plants and Aziraphale out to the coast. Maybe Aziraphale will hold the orchids in his lap, if Crowley agrees to drive reasonably enough to keep the dirt in its pots.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, insists on packing his books by hand. Crowley had, of course, pointed out that they could miracle them all into packing crates, or even to the cottage itself, but Aziraphale seemed somewhat scandalized by the very idea. So Crowley has passed a brief eternity dozing on the sofa in the back while listening to Aziraphale talk to himself about whether to sort alphabetically, chronologically, or by genre. It's maddening, because they could be _home_ by now, but perhaps this is less about Aziraphale being hopelessly fussy and more about the process of saying goodbye. The least he can do is allow him the sentimentality as he gives up something he's spent two-hundred-twenty years building.

Crowley feels a pang of guilt at that, a heavy uncertainty that this is actually what Aziraphale wants. He also feels resentful, of himself; what's the point of being a demon if he has to still feel guilty about being selfish and greedy? It should just be part of the package.

The morning that Aziraphale finally finishes packing, he wakes Crowley from his nap with a gentle kiss to his forehead, a tender caress of his cheek. Crowley angles his head up for a proper kiss, still half asleep, and Aziraphale obliges, slow and sweet like honey. Crowley parts his lips, invites Aziraphale inside, drinks him in; he slides his hands up Aziraphale's arms, down over his chest, clings to his waist like a life preserver.

Aziraphale stops kissing him to murmur against his lips, "Did you have a nightmare, dear?"

"Dunno," Crowley says, then admits, "I think I just wanted a bit of affection."

"Well, that's perfectly fine," Aziraphale says, and kisses him again.

Part of Crowley wants to pull Aziraphale down to the couch, but another part is still apprehensive about a repeat of the last time they tried to do much of anything. He lets the kiss run its course, enjoys the way Aziraphale's teeth pull gently at his lower lip, perhaps one of his favorite recent discoveries, but then he puts his hand on Aziraphale's chest and says, "What would you like to do this afternoon?"

"How would you feel about one last walk in the park?" Aziraphale asks.

Crowley frowns and sits up with a wince. "It's not the _last_ ," he says. London isn't going anywhere, even if they are. He pretends to rub at a spot of dirt on his pristine boot so that he doesn't have to look at Aziraphale when he asks, "Are you sure you want to move?" He could adjust, maybe, if he had to, if they moved to the shop instead of his flat.

"Darling," Aziraphale says, and he somehow imbues that one word with his answer, though he adds, "The more time that has passed, the more I love the idea. I want to make a home _together_ , some place ours where no one save a few humans has ever set foot."

He means Gabriel, Crowley realizes suddenly. Others, perhaps, too, but suddenly Crowley can _feel_ Gabriel in the air, and he's not sure the shop is an option after all. His mood shifts abruptly, but he doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want to unpack it. "Good," he says, because Aziraphale deserves _some_ acknowledgement, then, "Let's leave for the park when you're ready."

It's the first time Crowley has driven them there together. It had always been a rendezvous point before, so they had of course arrived separately, and driving there from the book shop, with Aziraphale humming in the seat beside him, is odd, albeit in a welcome sort of way.

They walk the usual circuit, they antagonize the ducks, and Crowley is feeling a bit tired and a bit exposed but doesn't want to ruin Aziraphale's afternoon by voicing either. Still, he's grateful when Aziraphale says, "Let's have a sit, then maybe an ice cream." Crowley is grateful for the former suggestion, at least, and follows Aziraphale to their usual spot.

There's a woman crying on their bench. The bench that has always, without fail, been empty when they approached it. Aziraphale does a little double take, steps faltering, a frown creasing his brow, but he keeps walking. It would hardly be polite, Crowley supposes, to ask her to _move_.

It's Crowley who goes back, turning on his heel and stopping in front of the bench. The woman blinks up at him, eyes red and swollen, and stares. He does look strange, he supposes, even more so when it's too warm an afternoon for how he's dressed.

Also, he's staring at her, so it's only fair.

"What," he begins. Purses his lips. Sighs.

She blinks again. "I'm sorry?"

He tries a second time. "What's _wrong?_ "

"Oh! You needn't worry yourself," she says, "I didn't mean to--" But she's cut off by a sob.

Crowley kneels on the ground in front of her, and she's just a little thing, really, a wounded bird, so they're nearly at eye level when he tells her, "You may not have meant to but I already have worried myself, so out with it, then." He hands her a handkerchief that had been inside Aziraphale's coat just a moment before.

Aziraphale puts a hand gently on Crowley's shoulder and whispers, "Why are you--"

"I don't know," Crowley says, because he really doesn't. He leans forward, feels Aziraphale's touch fall away. "Miss?"

"Beth." She gestures east, handkerchief in hand. "I was at St. Thomas, across the river. Top notch fetal cardiology department."

It's the first Crowley notices, because humans come in so many shapes and sizes, that she's clearly with child. Well on toward the end, he thinks, though he's hardly an expert. "Oh," is all he says, his hands closing into fists against his knees.

She gazes past him, past them both, but her eyes come back to Crowley's, or at least back to his glasses, when she starts to speak. "Congenital heart defects often correct themselves in the womb, and I thought--" She sniffles. "I _hoped_ , you know? A mother doesn't give up on her child." Crowley feels stricken, and it must show on his face, because she falls over herself to explain, "I'm not judging, of course, I understand allowing one's child to go peacefully rather than taking the risk, but I just couldn't, myself." She shakes her head. "Though now I know that I should have."

As she resumes weeping, Aziraphale clears his throat and says, sounding so very mournful, "Either decision is an act of mercy, my dear girl."

"And an act of love," Crowley adds softly. He intends the words for all three of them.

"I wish you were right," she says, glancing between them before focusing sharply on Crowley, "but how is it ‘mercy,’ condemning my child to pain? That part of the brain has already formed, I've read about it, all those nerves, the ones that allow for _suffering_. How is that merciful?"

Crowley doesn't have an answer for her, just a question of his own. "Are the doctors sure?"

She swallows, hard, and wipes at her eyes, mascara staining the pale fabric beyond saving. She nods.

"Wait," Crowley says. _No, no, no_. "They're going to check again before they _do_ anything, aren't they?"

Now she looks confused, maybe even hurt. "They said that they always do a last check, before." She closes her eyes tight, hands coming to rest protectively on her stomach. "But that's protocol, red tape. It's only getting worse each time they look -- they know what they're going to see."

Crowley uncurls his fingers, raises a hand of his own. "May I?"

She tilts her head. "I suppose." She watches as Crowley places his hand on her rounded belly. "I'm surprised," she says softly. "No one ever asks to touch once they know something's wrong. It's as if I'm the only one capable of showing love to this little doomed life."

Crowley feels something, a foot, maybe, that almost seems to be reaching for his touch. He smiles up at her encouragingly, though he wonders where he even learned such an expression; probably television again. "He's a very active boy."

She returns the smile, sad as she is. "How did you know it's a boy?"

He shrugs, winces at the tug of tender muscle. "Had a fifty percent chance, didn't I?" It's an easy obfuscation, since he can hardly tell her that he knows because he can feel the child's essence.

And oh, he _is_ in pain, not terribly so just yet but worse each day as his brain grows stronger and his heart grows weaker. It's only his mother's body cradling his own that keeps him strong enough to move at all. Crowley closes his eyes and concentrates, heals some cells and relocates others. He built nebulae in much the same way, once, inherent knowledge given form. Soon enough, tissues knit together, solid and whole, and heart valves are fluttering in time to twinkling starlight. There's an appropriate lullaby for this, isn't there, Crowley thinks distantly, something about diamonds, carbon atoms just like the ones he's shifted into place.

He gasps, eyes snapping open, and takes a shuddering breath. His cheeks are wet and he rocks on his cramping legs for a moment. They're not going to lift him, never mind hold him, and he raises his arm silently until Aziraphale helps him to his feet. He wobbles a bit, but Aziraphale takes his arm and does most of the work of keeping him upright. His vision is blurring and all he can hear is his own blood pounding through his skull, but he thinks he hears Aziraphale tell Beth that it was lovely to meet her although he wishes it had been under better circumstances; maybe he hears Aziraphale apologize for his partner's strange behavior, too.

They manage to walk a ways, around a bend in the path, before Crowley collapses against Aziraphale's chest. He's trembling, exhausted, the tears a steady, silent flow.

"What was that?" Aziraphale demands.

"That?" Crowley laughs and weeps against Aziraphale's coat, clears his throat and manages, "Oh, just the miracle she wanted."

Because Crowley can do miracles now; he can do anything. He'd even included a blessing, thrown in an uneventful and very nearly painless labor and delivery, too. He doesn't actually accept responsibility for that whole painful childbirth mess -- the serpent of Eden was an easy scapegoat for some rather significant design flaws inherent in the human form, is his suspicion -- but still, it's within his power to allow this mother to _enjoy_ her son's first breaths, his first heartbeats independent of her body.

He raises his head, waiting for some kind of disapproval from Aziraphale, an admonishment for his indiscretion maybe, but that's not what he sees at all: Aziraphale's eyes hold nothing but admiration and awe.

.

The others beat them to the cottage.

Crowley parks the Bentley, laden with plants and Aziraphale, and there's already another car in what passes for the driveway. Adam and Anathema are on the porch, looking over the front door and discussing quietly like two handymen deciding how best to approach a job. Newt waves awkwardly at Crowley and Aziraphale as they step from the car.

Aziraphale ascends the steps while Crowley waits by the car, feeling every bit as awkward as Newt looks, which is ridiculous: it's _his_ house. He makes a small noise of protest when Aziraphale, who had indeed held the orchids the entire trip, sits them on the porch rail to embrace first Anathema and then Adam. They feel precariously balanced, even if Crowley knows that the rail is several inches wider than the pots. He joins the others on the porch to save his orchids from falling; they've finally started to bud, and it wouldn't do to have them broken before they've ever bloomed.

Anathema smiles softly at him. Adam _grins_ , and launches himself at Crowley for a hug. He's reminded of Warlock, and the moments the little terror would be sweet. It's easier than he thinks it should be to hug Adam back.

"I'm glad you're okay," Adam says, stepping back and looking up at him. "I tried to help, but…" He bites his lip.

"You helped," Crowley says, gesturing toward the doorway. He can feel the scaffolding of whatever magick he and Anathema are building. It actually started when he turned onto the drive, but there seems to be extra reinforcement around the entrance to the cottage. Crowley gathers his orchids and steps inside. The hardwood past the door is light, just a bit shiny. He can see and feel that nothing terrible has ever happened here, not to him or to anyone else.

He can enter his home and step over a place no one has bled, least of all himself. It's a relief.

The orchids are still nestled against his chest, not daring to spill a speck of dirt, as he walks through the rooms. The movers have already left the crates of books and a few of Aziraphale's favorite pieces of furniture from the shop, including his old writing desk and what Aziraphale admitted that he'd long since come to think of as _Crowley's_ much-loved sofa. He knows that the things Aziraphale moved himself are here as well, a bathtub tucked away upstairs that doesn't yet match the rest of the room and the window seat in the sunroom.

That's where Crowley goes next. He's not quite feeling up to par after the little show in St. James last week, but he manages to conjure a few shelves and tables where he wants them, white to match the wood trim in the room, and finds a place with appropriate light to place the orchids gently down. There's the faintest bit of petal showing through the green of the buds.

The other plants aren't here to overhear, yet he hesitates before whispering, "You're doing very well, just a bit longer now. You'll grow better here."

He makes a few trips outside for more plants, and Newt volunteers to help. It's quick work to empty the Bentley with an extra set of hands, even if Newt does stop several times to ask Crowley questions about the car, its age, how it differs from more modern vehicles.

"I don't know," Crowley answers honestly. "I never wanted to learn about other cars."

Newt frowns but persists, "It doesn't have a computer in it, does it?" 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. "No?"

"New cars do," Newt explains, though Crowley hadn't asked. "Anathema's does."

Crowley turns back to glower at a somewhat slacking fern. "Well, that's stupid. Why would a car need a computer?"

"I've asked the exact same question." Newt sighs before excusing himself. 

Crowley is still arranging and rearranging plants in the sunroom quite a bit later in the afternoon when he hears Anathema's boots on the tile. He spares her a glance. Still wearing long skirts, but this one somehow seems more flowing, more relaxed. Her hair has grown longer, too.

She's holding out a pot, an offering. "It's a housewarming gift," she explains.

He takes it and looks it over. Nothing fancy, nothing particularly tall. Not really up to snuff, if he's being honest. But Aziraphale would be disappointed if he said as much, so he manages, "Thank you."

"It's not ornamental," she says, as if reading his thoughts, and who knows, maybe she is. "It's a practical gift."

"Herbs or magick?" he asks.

She arches an eyebrow. "Why are you so sure there's a difference? The earth has its own magick."

He gives her an appraising look, considers. "I suppose it must."

"There are bits of several plants in there. Rosemary under your pillow will help with nightmares, sage for cleansing, lemon balm for insomnia, calendula for healing, mugwort for protection." She pauses.

Crowley's hands tighten a bit on the pot. It's pretty, dark glazed ceramic with a red band. "Whatever you want to say, say it."

"Your flat," she says. "It had protections against demons, but not against their counterparts." Her voice isn't nearly as neutral as she seems to think; even if it had been, her stare is very pointed.

"You're a smart girl, I'm sure you can imagine why."

She nods. "Adam's wards are keyed to you and to Aziraphale specifically. You'll have to entertain any non-human visitors from the road."

"Don't think that'll be an issue. Took a flamethrower to all those bridges."

Her lip curls up. "I know how that is, I left some smoking ruins behind myself around the same time."

"Built yourself some new bridges," he observes lightly. "You lot seem close."

"We're neighbors."

It's his turn to feign neutrality. "Aziraphale, too, though."

Anathema nods. "We were the only ones there to take care of Aziraphale while he was taking care of you."

He wants to _thank_ her, but instead he asks, "Did you bring the angel a gift, too?"

"Adam and his friends made him a painting."

"Any good?" 

She shakes her head, a small, fond smile on her lips. "Colorful, though. Aziraphale said he plans to hang it over the fireplace."

"Good. Place could use some color." He sits the pot of herbs on a shelf at eye level, next to the orchids. "What's this one?"

She looks to where he's pointing. "That's cardamom."

"And what's cardamom for?"

"Supposed to sweeten the personality," she tells him, and he _laughs_. "Love," she adds, "and fidelity. Traditionally used in handfastings."

She smiles very gently; he doubts she knows she's doing it. Crowley coughs a little and says, "So he's worth it, then?"

"Of course," she says, sobering a bit. "And so is yours." 

He _likes_ her. A lot. "You're a bit too perceptive."

"Occupational risk."

He snorts. "Me too. Speaking of your man, does it bother you, having to drive him around?"

She looks confused but answers, "Not particularly. Does it bother you, having to drive your angel around?"

"No, but 'my angel' isn't insecure about it."

"Newt is insecure about a lot," she says. "I'm working on reminding him that he's as deserving of love as anyone else." Then that pointed stare again, and she says, "It's something Aziraphale and I have discussed." Before Crowley can answer, Anathema says, "Speak of the angel," and he turns to see Aziraphale standing in the doorway.

Crowley feels something at his core relax. It's _his angel_ , as Anathema called him, here in their home, smiling at them both. "If you're ready," Aziraphale is saying, "Anathema's young man has prepared us an early dinner."

"Yeah," Crowley says. He takes another look around the room before he heads toward the door.

Aziraphale rests his hand on the small of Crowley's back when they meet in the doorway, leans up to press a kiss to Crowley's cheek. Anathema keeps walking, so Crowley takes a moment to turn, to press Aziraphale gently against the doorframe and kiss him on the mouth.

"Welcome home," Crowley whispers. Aziraphale beams.

When they make it to the kitchen, Adam is setting the small table near the window. It's just a little breakfast nook, really not big enough for five people, but they'll manage. Newt is smiling, murmuring something to Anathema as she slices a loaf of bread. Crowley knows for a fact that these pretty matching plates, the silverware, the cutting board weren't in any of the boxes they sent from London. He wonders whether Aziraphale created it all, or whether these were among the many items he had ordered from small local craftsmen and vendors.

Crowley doesn't eat much, just enough to be able to compliment Newt, sincerely, on the cooking. Aziraphale pours five glasses of sparkling cider into champagne flutes. They go around the table, and when it's Crowley's turn, he raises his drink and looks over his glasses at Anathema.

"To building new bridges," he says. She smiles.

Adam seems pleased to be included in a grown-up toast, even if it's just juice. It's strange, Crowley thinks, that Adam's parents seem to have no problem with him running off for a day with these two, but then, what does Crowley know about parents? The Youngs did a good enough job, clearly.

He thinks of Beth and her baby, their no-doubt baffled doctors. He hopes that they'll be okay, that the nursery is coming along. Whatever humans do to prepare for such a momentous change in their lives.

The others leave shortly after dinner, with another round of hugs. Crowley clasps Newt's shoulder, and he looks startled but smiles at the attention.

Aziraphale and Crowley stay on the porch as their car drives away, Adam waving out the back window until they turn onto the main road. Once it's just the two of them, Crowley leans heavily against the railing.

"Dear?" Aziraphale's voice is soft.

"Just tired," Crowley murmurs. He clears his throat. "We should get the boy a car."

Aziraphale tilts his head. "Adam's a bit young for that yet."

"No, the other boy. Newton." Crowley gazes down at the Bentley. "Something classic."

"He helped you with your plants," Aziraphale observes.

"He cooked you dinner." Crowley forces himself to stand up straight before he falls asleep right there on the porch. He takes Aziraphale's hand and pulls him toward the door.

They step inside, and Aziraphale gestures toward the fireplace on the side of the room, the painting hanging above it. "Adam and his friends created this artwork for us."

Anathema had been correct to describe it as _colorful_ ; Crowley doesn't know what else to say about it, so he echoes her words. "It's very bright."

"It really is," Aziraphale agrees, "the colors are just lovely." He turns toward Crowley, and his gaze turns even fonder. " _You're_ so lovely, Crowley."

Crowley groans. "'mnot," he mutters.

"Well, I think you are," Aziraphale says seriously, "my lovely, lovely man. We should get you upstairs, you're positively exhausted."

He really is. He leans a bit heavily on Aziraphale as they make their way to the bedroom, and he barely manages to change into soft pants and a too-big sleep shirt, wide-collared and slipping off one shoulder, before sitting heavily on the bed. Aziraphale is in blue satin pajamas with buttons and cuffs and piped lapels. He lies down on the other side of the bed, book in hand, and pats his chest, inviting Crowley to drape himself over him.

Crowley isn't going to decline that invitation. He presses his front against the warm bulk of Aziraphale's body, nuzzles against his chest until Aziraphale puts the book aside and pets Crowley's hair. Crowley stretches and resettles, feeling content, but he hears Aziraphale's breath catch.

Oh.

"Sorry," Crowley starts to say, shifting away from Aziraphale, from the desire he exudes.

Aziraphale shushes him. "Don't be, dear, I'm just fine." Crowley looks up at him, and Aziraphale adds, "I've never been so happy, Crowley. Holding you in our bed, in our home, is more than I ever let myself dream of."

Crowley chooses to believe him. "Should I have let you carry me over the threshold?" he asks.

Aziraphale's cheeks pink up even more. "That's not necessary, darling." The hand not stroking Crowley's hair interlaces with Crowley's fingers. "Maybe once we're married."

He buries his face against Aziraphale's chest, breathes in the cinnamon paper silk _myangel_ scent of him. "Don't say that if you don't mean it," he murmurs.

All Aziraphale says is, "I wouldn't."

Crowley doesn't know whether he actually says it, or whether he falls asleep with the words still on his lips, but he thinks he says, "I love you, angel," before he falls asleep.

.

His first thought, the morning of their first full day in the cottage, is that he should have insisted on blackout curtains for the bedroom. He didn't think they'd need them, away from the light pollution of London; he'd somehow forgotten the _sun_. It's not even properly morning yet, the sky still more dark blue than anything, but the light is enough to wake him through the gauzy, billowy things Aziraphale chose.

His second thought is just that one word: _Aziraphale_. This isn't the first time he's woken curled against Aziraphale's chest, his head tucked under Aziraphale's chin, but it's _different_ somehow. Maybe because it's their bed, Aziraphale's love for antiques paired with Crowley's black sheets, in their home by the sea. Maybe it's the sunrise just starting to cast a glow over the room, over the blanket tucked securely around Crowley's feet and torso.

He's warm. He's safe.

It's so quiet, too. No traffic, no people making noise as they start their days or end their nights. Crowley would almost think he could hear the water over the silence, the gentle lap of the tides, but surely they're too far for that, especially here on the second story.

Crowley wants to go back to sleep, but he wants something else, too, though he's not sure what, exactly. He lifts his head, and he realizes that Aziraphale isn't actually awake. His book has fallen forgotten between the mattress and the oak headboard, but Crowley barely notices. He can't look away from Aziraphale's face. The pale morning light filtering through the window hits his hair just so; it isn't actually _white_ , but rather a shade of blond usually reserved for small children, and the sun highlights the golden hue; he shines like the precious being he is. His eyelashes rest just above his cheeks, and Crowley understands now why he's felt, from amid a semi-sleeping haze, Aziraphale's kisses there; there's a definite pull now to return the gesture, to learn with his most sensitive skin whether those fine hairs are as soft as the curls on Aziraphale's head.

He looks beautiful like this, even more so than usual. If he's dreaming, it doesn't show, all worries gone from his face. Even his mouth, usually so expressive, so demanding of Crowley's attention, is lax, lips parted just enough for Crowley to feel his slow, even breaths.

Crowley wants to commit this moment to memory, to forever remember the position of every atom of Aziraphale's skin, the stardust that contains his essence. He stares long enough for the room to brighten a bit more, still dark enough that he could turn his head to the pillow and sleep, were he capable of looking away, but light enough for Aziraphale to eventually stir, those lovely lashes fluttering as he blinks a few times. "Good morning, dearheart," he murmurs, mouth barely forming the harder consonants, the Gs and Ds more suggested than spoken. His eyes close again. 

"You were _sleeping_ ," Crowley whispers. Instead of the intended teasing, his voice conveys only wonder, perhaps laced with delight.

Aziraphale shakes his head, the barest hint of movement, a protest so unconvincing that it only proves itself false. He's willful and wonderful, and he's _his_. Crowley knows he should let him rest, leave him be, and he means to, right until the moment he kisses him instead, drawing a quiet moan from Aziraphale's open mouth.

He likes Aziraphale like this, all sleep-soft, almost pliant but still responsive. Aziraphale's arm is still draped lightly around Crowley's hip, but for a time all that he moves is his mouth, kissing Crowley back. Aziraphale is still better at this than Crowley is, so Crowley lets him lead. Aziraphale's tongue slides along Crowley's upper lip, and Crowley opens for him. It's not the first time Aziraphale has licked into his mouth, greedy, hungry, but it's the first time it hasn't felt foreign and almost uncomfortable for Crowley. He can breathe around the soft press of their lips, the gentle weight of Aziraphale's tongue. They're unhurried.

It all goes so slowly and sweetly from there, their mouths first, then their hands in each other's hair. Aziraphale is going so slow for him, not assuming anything, and he doesn't seem conscious of it when he slides one leg forward between Crowley's own. The want between his thighs has been growing for a while, he imagines, but his awareness of the ache only comes with the contact, the press of Aziraphale’s soft warmth.

Now that there's no fear of waking Aziraphale, Crowley can _move_ , and he strokes from Aziraphale's silky hair to his jaw, his neck, over his shoulders and that soft, warm, breathing chest. They're still kissing gently as Crowley unbuttons Aziraphale's pajama top, stopping after each button to touch the skin and hair revealed.

Crowley breaks their kiss so he can let his mouth follow the course his hands had taken, presses it to Aziraphale's jaw, his throat, the length of his chest. He pushes the sides of Aziraphale's shirt apart to reveal the width of him, then presses a kiss to each of his nipples. Aziraphale gasps softly above him, and it emboldens Crowley, enough for him to suck gently. Aziraphale's hand comes to rest at the back of Crowley's head.

"Is this okay?" Crowley breathes against Aziraphale's wet, pebbled skin.

"If it is for you," Aziraphale says, and all Crowley can do is hum his assent. He answers by moving his mouth to Aziraphale's other nipple, his hand rising to protect the first from the cool air. Aziraphale's fingers tighten in Crowley's hair, and Crowley can feel Aziraphale growing hard. It's wonderful, to know he's bringing him pleasure. "Then it's perfect, dear," Aziraphale promises, sounding a bit short of breath, "as long as you're not uncomfortable."

He's not, right now. He feels safe here in their bed, and he sits up just enough to pull his shirt over his head so he can sink closer, touch better. He presses his mouth to Aziraphale's before he can say anything, parts to whisper, "Don't look at my back."

"Love," Aziraphale starts, his gaze soft, but Crowley doesn't want to talk about it right now. He lies back against the pillows and pulls Aziraphale over him, pushes his shirt down off his shoulders until Aziraphale takes the hint and shrugs out of it. It falls to the bed behind him, then Aziraphale leans down, weight supported on his arms on either side of Crowley, and kisses him softly.

Crowley tilts his hips up, observes, "You're hard."

Aziraphale smiles, eyes fluttering nervously. "Of course I am, but that's not important."

"Take your pants off," Crowley tells him, pushing at the fabric at his waist with his fingertips. He huffs and adds, " _Please_."

"Are you sure?" Aziraphale asks, fingers tracing Crowley's cheeks.

"Yes," Crowley hisses. "I think so," he continues, voice softer. "We'll find out if I'm wrong, but can't that be enough, to try?"

Aziraphale nods, then sets to wiggling out of his pants. He's sitting up on his knees, and Crowley can see his cock for the first time. He reaches out to touch, and he commits Aziraphale's reaction to memory: his eyes closing, his lips parting on a gasp, his throat rumbling with a quiet moan. It's been a while since Crowley wore a cock of his own, and he'd forgotten how it feels, soft skin sliding over the hardness.

He feels his own sex clench around nothing, swollen but empty, and he has to swallow a whine. He wants some dignity here, _needs_ it, yet his traitorous voice breaks when he says, "Mine, too, want them off."

Whether from respect or his own eagerness, Aziraphale doesn't argue or ask again whether he's _sure_ , just kisses his stomach as he tugs the fabric down Crowley's hips, pulls it loose from his ankles. Then he's kneeling on the bed at Crowley's feet, his thumbs rubbing slow circles around the bones of his ankles, and there's so much love in his gaze that Crowley would almost swear he could _feel_ it, if he didn't know that he couldn't do that anymore.

Aziraphale runs his hands up Crowley's calves, over his knees. He stops when he reaches his thighs, though, not even particularly high up them, and doesn't move.

Crowley frowns. "Do you not want to touch me? We don't have to do this just because now _I_ feel ready."

Aziraphale's smile is sincere and so, so gentle. "I've wanted to touch you for ages, dear." His smile turns a bit self-satisfied at a joke he hasn't even finished yet, then he adds, "Literally."

"Angel," Crowley groans. He puts his hands over his face for a moment, then pulls them away. "Terrible," he says, "truly. But don't keep yourself waiting any longer."

He doesn't. Trails his touch up until it meets the heat between Crowley's legs, fingers tracing over it in wonder. "Your desire looks like morning dew on flower petals," he tells Crowley, who has to cover his face again, in embarrassment this time.

"Since when are you a poet?" he asks.

"Since I had feelings that needed expression," Aziraphale answers. "I would really love to taste you, may I?"

Crowley drops his hands to see the sincerity and want in Aziraphale’s gaze, and he shivers. "Yeah."

The first touch of Aziraphale's mouth is a soft brush of lips, not much more than the press of a kiss to his forehead or the back of his hand. Then Aziraphale inhales deeply, as if he's just uncorked an expensive wine or unboxed a particularly rich pastry. Crowley almost wants to protest, this is _embarrassing_ , but when Aziraphale's tongue slides between his lips to taste him, Crowley loses the will.

All Crowley can see is the breadth of Aziraphale's shoulders and the spun gold of his hair where his face is hidden between Crowley's thighs, but it's enough to keep him grounded through the novel sensation of something so much warmer, wetter, somehow more _alive_ than his fingertips caressing his most hidden places. His fingertips also never vibrated against his skin with sinful little noises of pleasure the way Aziraphale's mouth now does. Aziraphale has always loved using his mouth, hasn’t he, to eat and drink and express himself, and Crowley supposes that this is more of the same.

Crowley doesn't know how much of the wetness is coming from his core and how much is coming from Aziraphale's mouth, all he knows is that he can feel something trickling from his sex and along his skin to the mattress, a pool of moisture growing drop by drop under them, and that slow slide is only amplifying the more intense feelings building, his skin twitching under Aziraphale's tongue, the muscles in his calf jumping where, he suddenly realizes, Aziraphale has been holding onto his leg. Perhaps Crowley is only aware of the point of contact because it's sliding higher now, Aziraphale no longer shy about touching Crowley's thighs; why would he be, Crowley thinks, with his tongue all but inside him, Crowley's slickness no doubt running down his chin?

Aziraphale pulls his tongue up Crowley's center again, the tip pressing just inside, and Crowley has tasted himself there, knows the earthy salt taste sliding along Aziraphale's tongue. And he doesn't stop after that taste, no, moves up even further to lap at Crowley's clit, gentle licks and quick circles between soft kisses. And then one of those kisses lingers, until Aziraphale is suckling at his clit.

Crowley closes his eyes, sees the stardust they're made of, feels the atoms of the air he's breathing, the pull through his lungs, the oxygen transferring needlessly to his blood, his heart pumping and his clit throbbing in time between Aziraphale's teeth. He moans in pleasure, his fingers coming to rest against Aziraphale's hair for a moment before threading through the curls. He's not _really_ holding him in place -- Aziraphale is plenty capable of moving, but he takes the implied instruction, continues to worship Crowley with his mouth.

All at once, it goes from good to not good _enough_ to _too_ good, and he tugs Aziraphale's mouth free.

"Yes, dear?" Aziraphale asks, sitting up just enough to look Crowley in the eye. His chest is rising and falling a bit too rapidly, and his entire lower face is shiny. "Are you--?"

"Yeah," Crowley says, "but I want you here." He reaches for Aziraphale, pulls at him impatiently as he crawls over Crowley's reclining body, then kisses his taste from Aziraphale's mouth, wraps his arms around him.

Aziraphale props himself up on one elbow, still kissing Crowley even as he reaches for the heat between Crowley's legs. Soaked and swollen, and it's so much different than last time, and Aziraphale's touch is so gentle and unhurried, almost reverent, tracing Crowley's outer lips before pressing more firmly among his folds.

"May I--?" Aziraphale asks, and Crowley interrupts, "Yes, please."

It's not the first time he's been penetrated, but it's the first time someone else has been the one doing it, slowly filling him, pushing apart his swollen tissues to press against the pulse, the heat of him. Those fingers that have restored books are restoring Crowley, too, just a little, as he adds a second finger, pressing up and forward. Crowley moans, head falling back, and Aziraphale kisses his throat and repeats the motion, listens as Crowley keens.

"That's it, sweet boy, let it out," Aziraphale encourages, and Crowley would laugh if he weren't so relieved at the permission, at the freedom to just _be_ , to pull those fingers in and feel them pet him from the inside. It feels so gloriously good to not be empty, to not be _alone_ with his want. He tugs on Aziraphale's hair and kisses him again, the wet slide of their mouths against each other, of Aziraphale's fingers inside him, of Aziraphale's cock against his hip, utterly dizzying but still on the right side of overwhelming.

This could be enough, Crowley knows, if Aziraphale kept going. That steady motion like the waves lapping against the shore, pleasure cresting each time his fingers move just so. He doesn't seem interested in stopping, but Crowley wants so much more than just to come, wants to take more than just Aziraphale's fingers inside him before he does. "Want you," he manages before kissing Aziraphale again.

"You have me," Aziraphale says, movement of his wrist never faltering, "forever and for always, I am yours."

"I _know_ that," Crowley says, and he really does, even if a few short weeks ago it had seemed like an impossibility. "I _mean_ , I want you inside me."

"I am--"

"Not your fingers, angel, your cock."

Aziraphale blushes at the bluntness, as if he hadn't asked to taste him just a few minutes ago, as if his fingers aren't still pressed inside him. He's so cute when he's flustered, and Crowley raises his head to kiss Aziraphale again, to distract him with lips and tongue. _I'm here, we're here, we're okay_. Aziraphale looks so nervous, and Crowley didn't anticipate being the one to have to be comforting here, to take the lead even for a moment or two, long enough to move Aziraphale's hand from between his legs to his hip, still hot and wet against his skin, and to encourage Aziraphale to kneel in the welcoming space between Crowley's knees. Aziraphale kisses him, and Crowley can feel his desire and desperation, tinged with fear.

"What are you thinking?" Crowley whispers. He can't help imagining the worst: maybe Aziraphale is worried about falling, or he's thinking about how rubbish this foolish virgin under him is going to be, maybe he's changed his mind about _them_ altogether.

But instead, Aziraphale says, "I'm concerned that if I hurt you, it could taint this place for you." His eyes are wet. "My desire shouldn't violate the sanctity of our home."

Crowley could throttle him. "I love you," he says instead, "and I want you to fuck me."

"Oh."

"But sweetly," Crowley adds.

Aziraphale smiles, worry seemingly diminished. "You want me to make love to you, then?"

"Yes," Crowley says, putting aside the instinct to balk at the phrasing because it's _true_ , that's exactly what he wants. In a moment of bold confidence, he reaches between them and strokes Aziraphale's erection. "Isn't that what you want?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Aziraphale says. He whimpers as Crowley presses the tip of Aziraphale's cock against his wet skin, aligns their bodies and leaves Aziraphale resting there. So close, and Crowley is almost prepared to beg but Aziraphale beats him to it, shuddering, "Please."

"Yes," Crowley says, and they kiss again as Aziraphale starts to press inside. It's a wonderful feeling, he decides immediately, thicker than his fingers but with more give. There's no pain at all, he's so aroused and he's been so lovingly prepared, just the sensation of being joined to Aziraphale, his angel, his love.

Aziraphale, who is taking his time, denying his instinct, sliding in so, so slowly, giving Crowley's body time to adjust and make room for him. He pauses, pulls out a bit, and presses in farther this time.

 _He's fucking me_ , Crowley thinks, _Aziraphale is fucking me and it's perfect_. They press their foreheads together, breath mingling as Aziraphale holds himself back and Crowley memorizes every tiny bit of what he's feeling, the nerve endings lighting up in his sex, the stretch of his hips, even the painful press of his back against the mattress.

He must not hide his discomfort well, because Aziraphale stills his hips, barely halfway inside him, and says, "Dear, do you want to stop?"

"No, don't stop. I can't really get comfortable, but everything from the waist down is _fantastic_." He's trying to make a joke of it because he really _doesn't_ want to stop. He can handle a little pain; it's not the first time he's been on his back, since, even if it is the first time it's been with the weight of another body and its motion pressing him more firmly against the mattress. It's a pity that his back hurts so; he suspects the pressure would be delicious otherwise.

He reaches for Aziraphale to kiss him, to distract him into continuing. Aziraphale kisses him back, seems almost powerless not to. His lips and tongue still caressing Crowley's, Aziraphale slides his hands under Crowley's shoulders at the same time that he finally, _finally_ presses forward again with his hips as well, holding Crowley just those few merciful centimeters from the bed, bringing their chests together while he starts to move again, even more slowly than before.

"Better?" he breathes against Crowley's mouth, and Crowley answers by relaxing into Aziraphale's embrace, trusting those hands to hold him. It frees up his arms to wrap around Aziraphale, to hook under his arms so that Crowley can press his palms to Aziraphale's shoulders, hold him close. Chest to chest, Aziraphale's soft belly against the sharpness of Crowley's hips, the breadth of his thighs holding Crowley's open so he can press inside him with short, sweet strokes until he's eventually sheathed entirely inside Crowley's body.

"Fuck," Aziraphale whispers, and all Crowley can do is laugh breathlessly as Aziraphale rocks gently into him. Each movement of Aziraphale's hips is a new rush of pleasure, and Crowley could spend the rest of eternity happy in this sensation, even if he's still feeling some discomfort elsewhere in his body.

"It's so good," he assures Aziraphale, though he hasn't asked, hasn't needed to. "I didn't know it would feel like this," he adds, "didn't know that I was missing a piece."

"You don't need me to be whole," Aziraphale whispers, but Crowley isn't sure that's true; he isn't even sure Aziraphale believes it. But he doesn't want to argue right now, just wants to feel Aziraphale pull out and drive back in, fucking him but gently, slowly, _making love to him_ , his perfect, patient lover.

"Would you please put your legs around me?" Aziraphale requests, and Crowley feels skeptical -- won't that mean supporting more of his weight on his torso -- but Aziraphale slides even closer to him, under him, so that it's his thick forearms holding Crowley up and not just his hands, more support, more space, and Crowley lifts his thighs, presses them against Aziraphale's sides. The wanton little creature that Crowley wants to be for him would cross his ankles behind Aziraphale's back, hook them together and dig in with his heels, push him deeper, but Crowley _can't_ , at least not yet, and he pushes the thought away; Aziraphale doesn't want the perfect lover he deserves, he wants _him_.

Even so, the cant of his hips allows Aziraphale even deeper, and it's _good_. Aziraphale doesn't mention any deficiency on Crowley's part, just sinks inside and grinds gently against him, so much contact that Crowley feels a bit dizzy with it, the short hair above Aziraphale's cock pressed firmly against his clit and their bodies closer than close.

Little shivers, little sparks light behind his eyes, and he can feel his core clenching around Aziraphale, trying in vain to pull him even deeper.

"You're so close already," Aziraphale tells him, and it seems almost laughable that he would try to declare such a thing until Crowley realizes that he _is_ , and that he somehow failed to notice this on his own, too overcome with each and every sensation to realize what they've been building to. He usually needs more than this, needs it longer and harder and more consistent, but then he doesn't usually have weeks of denial culminating in a morning of hazy foreplay to stoke the embers of desire into a flame, burning bright but still safe and sustained, contained between them.

It's almost as if becoming aware of his pleasure has made it that much more intense, and Crowley slides one hand to the back of Aziraphale's head, angles him into a kiss so he doesn't cry out. Aziraphale kisses him but then, as if he knows, twists from Crowley's weak grasp and moves his mouth to the fluttering pulse under his jaw, grazes it with his teeth then says, "Touch yourself for me, love, I would but I don't want to let you go." When Crowley hesitates, Aziraphale adds, never breaking his slow, steady rhythm, "I would so enjoy feeling you climax, and hearing you, too."

Crowley exhales shakily, feeling an embarrassment that borders on shame, but he lets go of Aziraphale's hair, runs a hand down his back and over his hip, rests his palm there for a few moments to follow the roll of Aziraphale's hips into his.

Then, finally, he touches himself, does as Aziraphale asks, as he usually does. The direct contact is almost too much; he thinks he can feel each of the thousands of nerve endings under his fingertips, could count each of those little sparks of light if he were capable of higher thought, and it's almost too much again but he breathes through it, rubs little circles in time to Aziraphale's thrusts. His finish, when it comes, unspools like a blooming morning glory, pleasure unfurling like petals from his center and leaves turned toward the sun, a song of dawn buzzing in his ears that fades eventually into Aziraphale telling him how lovely he feels, his body cradling Aziraphale's, how good and sweet and loving he is, how loved Aziraphale feels with Crowley all around him.

Crowley can't help laughing at that, breathless and still shaking. " _You_ feel loved?"

Aziraphale kisses his collarbone, sounds a bit overwhelmed himself when he says, "Of course: your body, your arms and your mouth and your _heat_ , Crowley, beloved, you are my home." 

"Aziraphale." Crowley kisses him softly, relaxed and unhurried, his fingers still idly circling his clit. He runs his tongue along Aziraphale's bottom lip, and when he opens his mouth to grant Crowley entrance, he notices how hard Aziraphale is breathing. It's odd because he's barely moving, then Crowley realizes that's _why_ , the effort to restrain himself.

Crowley moves his hand from between them, failing to suppress the whine in the back of his throat. But here he is wanting to be fair again, so he puts his hand back on Aziraphale's hip and tugs, tries to encourage him to _move_.

"Take what you need from me," he says.

But Aziraphale shakes his head. "I'm perfectly happy with what we've done, just being inside you, Crowley, it's everything I've dreamt of."

"You don't sleep," Crowley mutters, and Aziraphale somehow manages to give him a reproachful look while his cock is still fully inside him.

"I slept last night," Aziraphale rebuts, and Crowley feels victorious at the admission, but he manages to focus.

"It's your turn," Crowley says, "or my turn, whatever, either way, justice is one of those virtues you’re such a fan of. And now I want to feel _you_ finish. Inside me. If you need to be a little less gentle for that to happen, then have at."

Aziraphale just shakes his head. "I could do that with a _miracle_ , finish inside you, I don't have to be--” He clears his throat. “ _Rough_ with you."

Crowley hisses, "Don't you dare use a miracle, I want it to be real." He pulls again at Aziraphale's hip. "On with it."

"'On with it'?" He finally does start moving, though, pulling out almost entirely before pressing back inside. He's still being too gentle to possibly be satisfying himself, Crowley thinks, but at least he's letting himself _move_. It's enough to pull deliciously where Crowley is stretched open around him, and each thrust rubs against his sensitized skin, inside and out. This part wasn't supposed to be about him, but maybe it's okay if it's about _them_. It's not a demonic temptation, just a little earthly motivation, when Crowley opens his thighs even wider and repeats, "Take what you need."

Aziraphale looks uncertain for just a moment more, then he groans and starts to _move_. Harder, faster, the snap of his hips against Crowley's as he does what Crowley asked. Even as Aziraphale chases his pleasure, the motion draws a second, unexpected orgasm from Crowley; the clasp of Crowley's body pulls Aziraphale’s answering climax out as well. He spills warm and thick inside Crowley, his hips stuttering then slowing, eventually, to just that familiar grind from earlier.

"Oh, angel," Crowley murmurs, overcome with tenderness and _wonder_. He touches Aziraphale's back, his hair, kisses him softly on the mouth. They lie there for a bit, forehead to forehead, Aziraphale's come and Crowley's slick sliding to the sheets from where they're still joined.

Crowley feels himself begin to drift off, and he would like to sleep just like this, Aziraphale softening inside him, holding him up and keeping him safe. But as he's about to drift off, he feels Aziraphale kiss his cheek. "Crowley, darling," he asks, "are you in pain?"

"No," Crowley murmurs, refusing to move his mouth more than necessary.

"Frightened?"

"No." He sighs softly, understanding. "'s good crying."

"If you're sure," Aziraphale says, sounding very much not, himself.

"I swear it, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale kisses his other cheek. "Then I believe you, my love, I know."

"I want to sleep," Crowley manages to say, and Aziraphale rolls them, gently holding Crowley with one hand between his hips and another at the base of his neck, so that Crowley is draped over Aziraphale's body, Aziraphale still partly inside him. "Blanket," Crowley requests, cold now there's not a second body over his own, and Aziraphale snaps his fingers, the blanket rearranging itself to settle over them both. Crowley presses his hand over Aziraphale's heart and lets the steadiness of it, the solid weight of Aziraphale's arms, the warm weight of his cock nestled inside Crowley, all pull him under.

When he wakes, the sun has moved across the floor but only a short distance. Aziraphale is asleep, too. They've shifted in their sleep, and they're no longer joined. Crowley allows himself a moment to feel empty, bereft, before reminding himself that they'll do all that again.

Again and again, in fact, so many times they'll lose count. It feels like a promise.

Crowley disentangles himself carefully. Aziraphale stirs, but Crowley presses a kiss to his chest, over his heart, and smooths his hand over his forehead. Aziraphale settles.

He doesn't want to wake him by fussing with dresser drawers and wardrobe doors, so he snaps softly so that he's wearing a pair of his own underwear and one of Aziraphale's big warm cardigans. It feels like an embrace.

Crowley walks downstairs and goes into the kitchen to make some tea. While he waits for the kettle, he makes toast from the leftover bread from last night's housewarming dinner. He chuckles when he realizes the reversal: he's eating while Aziraphale sleeps.

He takes his breakfast into the sunroom, planning to curl up and watch the tide lap against the shoreline from the window while he eats, enjoy the morning with his plants at his back and the sun at his front. He settles on the window seat, balances his tea and toast on his knees while he fusses with some pillows. He's pleasantly sore, and it takes a moment to get comfortable. The china knows better than to fall while he gets settled.

His breaths match to the gentle motion of the water, and he's about to drift away with it when he notices white out of the corner of his eye.

The orchids.

"About damn time," he murmurs. "You were about to become compost." But that really isn't true, and he wouldn't say it if he thought they might believe him. They shouldn't have opened this quickly, he knows; maybe a little praise isn't a bad thing. "You look lovely," he mumbles, feeling quite silly. The leaves seem to ruffle a thanks nonetheless.

He'll cut one single orchid, he decides, very gently, with his best, sharpest shears, and take it to Aziraphale soon with thick honey toast and hot fruit tea. He'll say, _look, angel, see what grew here, away from the poison_. The first of so many, he thinks.

* * *

Life will continue in an endless series of moments, just as it has since the dawn of time. The biggest difference, for Crowley, is that the preponderance will be positive for the first time since he fell.

Yes, he'll hurt when it's stormy, an ache throughout his body that concentrates to the horrible throbbing in the healed bone in his back. But when he stands on the porch and watches the dark clouds roll in across the water, Aziraphale will join him outside, pad across the boards in his socks, and wrap his arms around Crowley from behind. He'll press a gentle kiss to the skin bared by Crowley's backless sweater, and shield him from the rain yet again.

An envelope will arrive as winter gives way to spring, addressed to Anthony in care of Mr. Ezra Fell and forwarded from the shuttered shop. The return address is an Elizabeth in London, and Crowley is confused when he opens it to find a birth announcement and a picture of a newborn human. It’s less ugly than the average neonate, Crowley notices, and after staring at the photograph for a solid minute, he recognizes him, an essence against which he had brushed a few months before. The picture flutters from his fingers and falls to the floor, and on the back in all capital letters and underlined three times is the word _HEALTHY_ , then: _He's perfect. I don't care what the doctors say about uncalibrated equipment and misdiagnosis, I know what you did_. A common enough phrase leveled at Crowley, but rarely in a positive light. _Thank you, and God bless_ , she concludes, _Beth_.

That summer, they'll receive an engagement announcement in the mail as well. "Angel, who are Liam and Colin?" Crowley will ask, drawing Aziraphale's attention from his reading. They are, Aziraphale explains, the waiter from their first date and his young man. Crowley doesn't remember which name is whose, supposes it doesn't matter. "Do you give your address to everyone you meet?" Crowley asks, and Aziraphale replies, "No, just the ones I think you would be interested in hearing from again." Crowley sends a gift, something extravagant and ridiculous, and justifies to himself that he'll have caused all kinds of gossipy speculation at the reception.

Crowley will get better at being touched, will learn that there's comfort to be had in being under Aziraphale. Crowley kneeling on the bed and Aziraphale taking him from behind until Crowley comes untouched on Aziraphale's cock, and Aziraphale switching to slow, deep, deliberate thrusts that each bring a sob from deep in Crowley's chest. Aziraphale traces his hands over Crowley's hips, his waist, his ribs, down his arms and then up over his shoulders, and finally glides gentle fingertips over the scars on his back. He runs his thumbs between them over the curve of Crowley's spine, and when he blankets himself over him and kisses just above his thumbs, then turns his head to either side to press his lips to each scar as well, Crowley gasps and says, "Angel! you don't have to do that, I know it's--" and he doesn't want to say _ugly disgusting tarnished_ so he doesn't say anything else at all, but Aziraphale says, will always say, "A part of you, and beautiful for it," as many times as Crowley needs to hear it.

His snake form, when he shifts, will be damaged as well, a lump on his back and several of his once-flexible vertebrae too stiff to coil properly. That's the part he drapes across Aziraphale's chest or behind his shoulders, or along the back of the sofa while Aziraphale reads or the porch rail when the sun hits it just right. He adapts.

In a few years, they'll marry on the beach, Crowley's circlet of orchid flowers matched to Aziraphale's boutonniere. Anathema and her man are in attendance; he drives them there in a lovingly restored 1940s sedan, a post-war special meant for the boys who did their duty and came home to have families and lives. In Crowley's opinion, Newt has earned this car and all it represents as much as any other young man to sit behind the wheel of one; he fought in his own war for freedom. Pepper drives her boys, and even keeps her remarks about marriage being antiquated to a minimum. Aziraphale cries just a little when he slides a ring onto Crowley's finger. It's not a simple band, but rather a moebius strip. It's always been funny to Crowley when humans try to use something concrete, tangible, touchable, to represent concepts they can't really imagine. Eternity, and a shape that appears at first glance to have two sides but truly only has one.

Aziraphale carries him over the threshold this time, and makes love to him while murmuring _husband, spouse, mine_ , in every living language he knows and several dead ones as well.

Countless evenings will be filled with cocoa and sweaters and a blanket on the porch swing, watching the sunset or rain or snow. It's usually not much more than flurries, though Crowley likes to treat both Aziraphale and the children further along the shore to a proper white Christmas Eve each year. It's the type of manifestation that still takes a lot out of him, even a few years along in his recovery, and the chill itself causes him pain, but he weighs the cost each time and always decides that it's worth it.

They can make love when Crowley's pain is too bad to sleep and nothing else helps, his knees on either side of Aziraphale's face while his mouth works Crowley to climax after climax, preternaturally strong arms holding him up so there's no pressure on his spine and shoulders, not even any pressure to keep himself upright, limp save for his long fingers threaded through Aziraphale's hair, mostly just touching, petting, but sometimes holding him where he wants him, Aziraphale's nose pressed to his clit while his tongue dips inside him, eating his cunt so divinely until he's wrung out and the better kind of exhausted, and free to arrange his sticky body over Aziraphale's, his dripping sex pressed to Aziraphale's thigh. This sometimes leads to other activities during the night or early the next morning, but just as often Crowley will wake dressed in a wide-neck sleep shirt. He knows that Aziraphale likes the way it slips down off of one of Crowley's shoulders when he sits, and he'll make a point for it to happen when he rises to ask Aziraphale what he's been reading while Crowley slept. Then Crowley will kiss him, swirl his tongue into that mouth that had just been on him the previous evening, might even say, "Thank you for last night," so that Aziraphale can say, "It was my pleasure," and look so pleased with his own humor.

Crowley will feel more free in their cottage, as close to at peace as he can know. It's quiet and safe and theirs. He doesn't have to wear a shirt when he's tender, he can sleep in the sand, he has many windows and even more plants. When the weather isn't conducive to spending much time outside, Crowley will climb to the attic, Aziraphale in tow, and lie back amongst a nest of pillows on the floor to stare through the skylight and watch the stars. No matter how many times he says, "I made that one, I recognize it," Aziraphale is still impressed. He'll never stop looking at Crowley as if he himself is the most amazing of Her creations.

Although, one day Aziraphale looks at him rather _strangely_. They were making love the night before, Crowley riding Aziraphale with scars visible to him, his arms braced behind himself against the softness of Aziraphale's chest. They enjoy this position, now that Crowley can bear to be seen, and they've done it well over two dozen times before Aziraphale suddenly seems strange about it. Crowley tries to push it out of his mind, succeeds for hours at a time, but by that night he breaks and asks Aziraphale what happened the night before, and Aziraphale will immediately tear up and say, "Oh, my love, I'm so sorry, I didn't notice before, but I’m afraid they're getting worse."

And they'll continue to get _worse_ , although Crowley knows that Aziraphale regrets choosing the word. The twin knots of tissue where his wings were so mercilessly cut and torn away from his body are growing bigger, pulsing, moving under his skin. They don't seem to hurt more intensely or more frequently, but they're _changing_ and no one can tell him when or whether they'll stop. He knows that Aziraphale won't love him any less if his disfigurement grows too large to hide even with his long hair, but he might have to stop going out among the humans, at least if he can't focus on making them see around him. Crowley feels the sick pressure under his skin and has no choice but to wait to see how bad it will get, how much of his still-new life he'll lose.

One day Crowley sits on the beach, sand along his black capris and the sun warm on his aching flesh where his halter top exposes the growths to its heat. They'll have grown large enough now that Crowley can touch the edges without really trying, can feel the space between them narrow when he moves his shoulders. It doesn't matter, he'll tell himself over and over, it doesn't matter that he's becoming a beast, and it doesn't matter that he's feeling ever weaker, less and less connected to the well of Hellish power he's pulled from for so many millenia now. Aziraphale won't leave him, Aziraphale will take care of him. He repeats all of this to himself, an endless mantra, until Aziraphale joins him in the sand that day, kneels behind him and brushes Crowley's long, long hair over his shoulder so that it's in front of him, reflecting the setting sun's orange back at it.

"Crowley," Aziraphale says, "I didn't want to say anything until I was more sure, but I'm convinced that your wings are growing back."

Crowley writes this off as wishful thinking and won't believe it for a very, very long time. Not even when the skin around the scars starts to pebble and change. It itches, reminds him of the times he stayed a serpent too long and needed to shed, or wore his wings on this plane too long and started to molt. But there's nothing there, nothing to rub away or pull out, and it just feels like another cruelty of this whole situation. He has his home and his love, he's alive, but just as he was learning to love his broken body, it turned on him.

Many more years will pass, and Crowley will be making a Christmas Eve snow for the visiting grandchildren of the first kids he performed this particular miracle for. He'll be on the porch in one of his backless sweaters, the only thing he can really wear comfortably anymore with the growths on his back, the sheer size and bulk of them. Despite his exposed skin, he's not terribly cold, especially with his long hair. He's focused less on the necessary chill than on making it snow. It seems a little harder every year, the less connected he remains to Hell. He doesn't want to fail, not for this, not on Christmas. He knows the children expect it, that after three generations they take it on faith that it always snows here on Christmas Eve. Crowley doesn’t want to be the reason another human loses hope.

He thinks about Jesus, the second real friend he ever made, thinks about doing this little tradition to delight these children as they celebrate him. Jesus always had loved kids, remarked to Crowley more than once that they were the best among his people. Crowley doesn't know about all that -- he remembers how terrible Warlock's friends could be, and they didn't have the excuse of a direct demonic influence -- but still. Jesus was probably the nicest person Crowley knew, human or otherwise, so he thinks maybe he might have known goodness when he saw it.

Suddenly, after so much fruitless concentration, Crowley's wandering mind is what finally calls the clouds to task and starts the snowfall. Better late than never, he supposes, and swirls his hand a few times above his head to speed things along and invite the wind. It blows his hair to the side, and he reaches for the shawl folded on the swing.

"Crowley," Aziraphale gasps from the doorway. "Oh, Lord. Oh, She…" He trails off and comes to Crowley, takes the shawl from his hand and drops it to the floorboards. He's trembling when Crowley turns to him.

"It's just _snow_ , angel," Crowley says, “I do it every year,” but Aziraphale shakes his head and turns Crowley so he's facing away from him again. His fingers trace so gently over Crowley's back, the mounds of flesh, the smooth skin of his scars and the rough skin on either side of each one.

"Feathers," Aziraphale whispers. Crowley has to have misheard him, but Aziraphale repeats it, says, "Crowley, love, you have _feathers_." He gently brings Crowley's hand behind his back and helps him to feel the small, downy spots.

"They're growing back," Crowley murmurs. He turns around to face Aziraphale, and he isn't sure what he expected but it wasn't for Aziraphale to have flowing tears on both his cheeks.

"I told you they were," Aziraphale says; he's not trying to say he was right, just that he's unsurprised. But then why--

"Angel," Crowley says helplessly, “you never properly cry.” He makes himself stop touching his feathers so that he can hold both arms out to Aziraphale, cradle him to his chest. It's a peaceful night, despite the crying angel in his arms. He leads them to the swing, instructs it to stay still so he can sit and gather Aziraphale beside him. He drapes the shawl around them both and strokes his hand through Aziraphale's soft curls. Their caroling neighbors won't visit them, the wards around the property still offering a gentle _no, thank you_ to any unexpected visitors, but Crowley thinks that he can hear them anyway: _His law is love and His gospel is peace_.

Crowley summons a big mug of cocoa to him, laden with peppermint sticks and whipped cream and more than a little expensive chocolate liqueur. "Aziraphale," Crowley murmurs, still touching him with one hand but holding the mug in the other. He has a sip to test it while Aziraphale sits up, then holds the rest out to him. Aziraphale tries it and smiles quite contentedly as he has more, passing it back to Crowley a few times. Crowley appreciates the buzz of the alcohol; he was too concerned with caring for Aziraphale just now to fully process what’s happened, and it would be overwhelming without the buffer.

 _He has wing feathers again_ , just a few but more than he ever expected, and also a reason to hope for more.

Hope. It's dizzying.

He takes Aziraphale's hand while they drink and watch the snow, and eventually he asks, "Feeling better, angel?"

Aziraphale seems to start at the word. "Yes. Oh, yes, Crowley, I'm very happy. I was just surprised."

"I thought you _knew_ they were growing back," Crowley teases.

"Oh, well, yes." It's hard to know for sure out here in the late evening, but Crowley thinks he sees Aziraphale blush. The alcohol, perhaps. But then Aziraphale laces their fingers together, kisses Crowley's hand before resting his head on his shoulder. "But I didn't expect, my love, that the feathers would be white."

"White," Crowley repeats.

"Yes." Aziraphale squeezes his hand. "I do hope you're not too disappointed."

"'m not." Crowley stares at the snow gathering on the steps down to the driveway. His feathers are that color, he realizes. "I just don't understand why."

Aziraphale refills the mug. "I don't suppose you'd want to hear that it might have been part of Her ineffable plan."

Crowley considers, takes a few deep breaths. "A plan to forsake an angel who was mediocre at worst so that a demon could help save the world Her own lesser great plan threatened, and then be tortured and maimed by a madman as a step toward regaining his grace now that the work is done?"

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale kisses him softly. He tastes like chocolate and mint and love and the slight burn of alcohol. "I apologize, love. I didn't say it was a _good_ plan, or that I agree with the methods. Just that it may have been intentional." He kisses him again. "I didn't say it was right, I'm not defending what they did to you, not Her and certainly not him."

Crowley looks down at his wedding band. A single side. "I know," he says softly.

The snow falls softly and melts into the water, darkens the sand. Crowley drinks more cocoa and leans into the delicate sensation of Aziraphale touching his new white feathers under the shawl. They warm under his touch, and Crowley lets that comfort sink even deeper, into the core of him, warming his heart and heating his blood.

They’ll go inside soon, likely kiss under the mistletoe and make love in front of the fire, and in the morning they’ll eat mince pies or brioche French toast and exchange gifts. Certain things will never change for them, between them, and Crowley will forever be grateful for that. Other things will, and here Crowley thinks of his wings, his mind, his peace; and he’ll forever be grateful for that, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Please check out [this awesome artist](https://twitter.com/magicbubblepipe/status/1181645052248039426) from whom I commissioned artwork for this story!
> 
> This fic ended up being unintentionally but intensely personal. Please be kind if you comment!


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